CHAPTER VIII.

BLOSSOMS ON THE BORDER OF THE GRAVE.

"Come quick, Johannes, Hilsborn has arrived," the Staatsraethin whispered from the door of the apartment. Johannes was seated by Ernestine's bedside, her head leaning upon his hand, while the poor girl moved restlessly from side to side, muttering unintelligibly. He motioned to Willmers to take his place, and went softly out.

"Thank God, you are back again. Have you brought him with you?"

"He has escaped."

"Hilsborn, that is terrible!"

"He is gone whither he cannot be pursued, and whence he can work no more mischief."

"Is he dead?"

"He is dead, and he died in fearful agony.

"God have mercy on his soul! Did he take poison?" asked the Staatsraethin.

"Yes, just after his arrest I arranged matters as well as I could, but he had only a little over two thousand gulden in his possession. He had put all the property in the Unkenheim factory."

"And that is bankrupt, so we shall not be able to save anything for Ernestine," said Johannes.

"I am very sorry for that."

"But Hilsborn, faithful friend, I am quite forgetting to thank you. How shall I repay you for taking this journey for me?" said Johannes warmly.

"I am already paid."

"Indeed? What possible pleasure could result from such a mission?" inquired the Staatsraethin.

Hilsborn smiled. "Such pleasure as I never dreamed of. Gleissert bequeathed me a treasure whose possession no one, God willing, shall dispute with me. May I show it to you? I would like to intrust it to your keeping, dear friends, for awhile."

Johannes and his mother exchanged looks of surprise. Was Hilsborn quite right in his mind?

"I will tell you nothing more," he said. "See for yourselves." He left the room, and appeared again in a few moments with Gretchen upon his arm. The poor child ventured only one timid, beseeching look at the strangers, but the touching expression of her eyes won their hearts immediately.

"Good God! his child?" asked the Staatsraethin.

"His child," Hilsborn replied with grave emphasis.

The old lady went up instantly to the lovely, shrinking girl and embraced her, saying significantly to Hilsborn, "Now I understand you!"

"Dear Fraeulein Gleissert," said Johannes, "you are most welcome, and you must allow us to offer you a home until you find a better."

"You are too kind," stammered Gretchen. "I know how bold I am, but my guardian----"

"What! Hilsborn, are you her guardian?"

"Her dying father wished it to be so, and therefore I brought her here to place her under your protection, although she wished to see no one except Ernestine."

"She can hardly see her for sometime yet," said Moellner. "Ernestine's fever may be infectious."

"Oh, is that all?" Gretchen ventured to remonstrate. "Then pray let me go to her. Nothing can harm me when I am doing my duty. Better to die than live on without being permitted to do as I know I ought. Oh, dear Herr Hilsborn, you know what I mean, speak for me!"

"Do not refuse her, Johannes. She will not be content until she is with Ernestine. I make a fearful sacrifice in exposing her to this danger, when I would guard her like the apple of my eye, but I know how she is longing for Ernestine."

"Then, Fraeulein Gleissert, you shall share with my mother the care of the invalid."

"Thank you all a thousand times! May I go now?"

"Take her to Ernestine's room, mother dear, while I speak with Hilsborn," said Johannes.

"Come, then, my child." The Staatsraethin opened the door of the darkened apartment, and the girl entered.

Gretchen stood as if rooted to the spot. There lay the dreaded, mute accuser of her father, the unfortunate victim of his crimes, pale and beautiful as an ideal embodiment of death,--a glorious lily, prostrated, perhaps never again to stand erect, by the same hand that a few days before had been laid in blessing upon Gretchen's head. The poor child, crushed by the sight, sank upon her knees, and, extending her arms, cried in a suppressed voice of agony, "Forgive, forgive!"

Ernestine did not reply, for she did not hear. Reason was dethroned behind that pale, broad brow, and confused dreams were running riot there in the wildest anarchy.

Only when Gretchen perceived that Ernestine was wholly unconscious, did she dare to approach close to her. Gazing at her with admiring pity, she murmured to herself, "No, my father did not understand, or he maligned you. You are not bad, you cannot be bad!" And, kneeling, she breathed a gentle kiss upon the small hand.

Did the invalid feel that something loving was near? She put out her hand towards the kneeling girl, and, detaining her by the dress, leaned her head upon her shoulder.

"She will let me stay by her," whispered Gretchen with a face of delight.

The Staatsraethin could not help stroking the brow of the charming child, and Frau Willmers felt as if this stranger were an angel, come to lead Ernestine into a better world.

"Such a sick-room I like to see," suddenly said a suppressed bass voice that made Gretchen start. "This is a pretty sight," it continued, and old Heim looked searchingly at Gretchen from beneath his bushy white eyebrows.

The girl would have arisen, but Ernestine would not release her, and Heim motioned to her to be quiet. "You have one hand free, my child, give it to me. I am your guardian's foster-father, and I know what a good child you are. The fellow was right to bring you here,--I would have brought you myself. God bless you!"

He seated himself by the bedside, and a deep expectant silence reigned in the room as he felt Ernestine's pulse. Besides Gretchen's, two other anxious eyes were riveted upon his face. Moellner had just entered noiselessly. "Well, what do you think?" he asked eagerly.

Heim shrugged his shoulders. "I do not think it is typhus. Nevertheless----"

Scarcely had the invalid heard Johannes' voice when she released Gretchen and turned her face towards the spot where Moellner was standing. He approached the bed and leaned over her. She put out her arms to him, but instantly dropped them again, as if, even in her delirium, she would not confess herself conquered. And then she talked wildly on, at times declaring that she could not get rid of the skull,--it would follow her everywhere, and then pleading piteously that she was not yet dead, and they must not put her down into the narrow grave.

"This is the result of a woman's giving herself up to anatomical studies," said Moellner.

"There has been dreadful work with the nerves here, and with the brain too," muttered Heim. "The fever has increased since I have been sitting here. If we could only disabuse her mind of these delirious fancies!"

"I have tried that, but contradiction only excites her."

"Let this child try, then. It is impossible to say what effect she might produce," said Heim. "Have you the courage, my child, to watch with your cousin tonight?"

"Oh, sir, I think I can never touch my bed until Ernestine has left hers."

"There's a brave girl! upon my word, I've seen nothing so charming for a long while. She will soon rival Ernestine in my heart!"

Johannes laid a cloth dipped in ice-water upon Ernestine's forehead, who continued to moan bitterly that she was not dead and they must not treat her thus.

"Ernestine," said Gretchen in her clear, bell-like voice, "no one shall harm you. Be quiet, dear."

"Do you not see," wailed the sick girl, "that they are trying to weigh my brain? and it hurts! oh, how it hurts!"

"Ernestine, you are dreaming," said Gretchen. "This is only a damp cloth. Feel it yourself."

"Remember that, although I am dead, my soul is living. Oh, if I could only stop thinking! Dying is nothing! living is the worst of all!"

Johannes turned away, and wrung his hands. "Ah, Johannes!" she exclaimed, "my uncle's knife is sharp, I cannot get away. Why did they bind me here, if they thought me dead?" And in an instant she thrust Gretchen aside, and would have leaped from the bed, had not Johannes gently but firmly thrown his strong arm around her and forced her back among the pillows.

"Let me go! let go!" she moaned. "Who ever heard of dissection before death?"

"Ernestine," Johannes cried in despair, "it is I,--Johannes. No one shall harm you!"

But she either did not hear or did not understand him, and she struggled so that Johannes could scarcely hold her.

"This is dreadful!" said the Staatsraethin, supporting Gretchen's tottering form. "Do you still think, Father Heim, after this, that physiology is the study for a woman's nerves? Can a woman's nature take a more terrible revenge than this?"

Heim shook his head, and grumbled, "Frail stuff, indeed, but yet I thought she could stand it. Well, well, one is never too old to learn."

And still Ernestine raved on, ceaselessly haunted by the same grim phantoms created by the fearful struggle that she had lately passed through.

At last exhaustion supervened, and she lay perfectly silent and motionless. Heim took his hat and cane. "I think she will have a quieter night. You should take some rest, Johannes. You cannot stand such uninterrupted watching."

"I have done all that I could to persuade him to lie down," said his mother. "I can easily watch one night, especially now since I have such a dear little assistant. And Willmers too will wear herself out. She is as obstinate as Johannes."

"There is nothing to be done with him," said Heim. "It is a good thing that it is vacation, or this would soon come to an end. Well, I must go. It is quite a drive to town."

"It would have been better if we could have taken her home with us," said the Staatsraethin. "But the illness was so sudden and violent that she could not be moved, and we had to come out here to nurse her."

"You are good people!" And Heim held out his hand to them. "God will reward you for your kindness to the poor child."

"All that I do, dear friend, is done for my son's sake. I am sure he will thank me."

"Indeed he will, mother," Johannes declared with emphasis.

When Heim entered the next room, he found Hilsborn there, standing at the window, lost in dreamy reverie.

"Well, my boy, will you have a seat in my carriage?"

"Why, father, I should like to stay here to-day and assist Moellner," said Hilsborn, slightly confused.

"Assist Moellner? Hm----" Heim paused, and riveted his piercing eyes with infinite humour upon Hilsborn's blushing face. "Well, well, my boy, since you wish it, pray assist Moellner. You have my free consent to do so."

The young man clasped his foster-father's hand with an emotion of gratitude that he hardly understood himself.

"Hm," said Heim again. "We understand! we understand! All right! Anything else would be unnatural. There's no need to be ashamed of your choice. Good night, and"--a good-humoured smile played about his mouth--"do assist Moellner diligently. Do you hear?"

And the genial old man went chuckling out of the room.

Hilsborn bethought himself awhile, then looked cautiously into the sick-room and beckoned to Gretchen. She instantly came to him.

"Only a moment," he begged, and gently drew her away with him. "You must have a little fresh air. All the others think only of Ernestine. I am here to take care of you, and to see that you do not overtask your strength. Come, take a few turns with me in the garden."

"As you please," said the girl meekly.

"Not as I please, Gretchen. You must not talk in that way. I do not like it." He threw a shawl over her shoulders, and gave her his arm. Together they went down into the garden.

"This garden," said Gretchen, "reminds me of ours at the pension."

"Were you happy there?" asked her companion.

"Oh, very! I had so many kind teachers and companions!"

"It must be very hard for you to leave such a home."

"My home now is with Ernestine. I am content only by her bedside. I wish for nothing else. I do not choose to wish for anything else."

Hilsborn broke off a fading acacia-sprig from the tree.

"Give it to me?" said Gretchen. "I will try whether Ernestine will recover or not." And she pulled off the leaves, one after another. "Yes,--no,--yes,--no. Yes, she will get well!"

"Do you know Faust?"

"No. We were never allowed to read Goethe."

"Your namesake in Faust plucks off the leaves of a daisy, to answer a question that she puts it, but the question is a different one."

"What is it?"

"She asks whether she is beloved."

Gretchen looked down.

"Did you never put that question?"

"How could I? I was sure that my father, my teachers and friends loved me, and I knew no one else."

"And yet you must often have consulted your flower oracle?"

"Oh, yes. There was plenty to ask,--whether I was to take the first, second, or third rank in the examination,--whether I was to have a letter from my father that day,--and ever so many things besides. But that is all over. There are few flowers or questions for me now."

"You must not indulge such gloomy, autumnal fancies. The flowers will bloom again, and with them many a youthful hope in your heart. You will, perhaps, one day want to know whether one whom you love loves you."

Gretchen looked seriously and kindly at him from out her brown eyes.

"If Ernestine only loves me, and----"

"Well, and----?"

"And you, I will ask nothing more."

"Gretchen, do you not believe that I love you?"

"Yes, I think you do," the girl replied frankly.

"By the good God, who sees all hearts, I think so too," cried Hilsborn, clasping the little hand that lay upon his arm more closely to his heart.

They stood still for one moment together in the gathering twilight, and then walked slowly on. It was an unusually mild autumn evening. The crescent of the new moon glimmered, like a gleaming diamond upon dark locks, just above the tall firs that crowned the hill that had been Ernestine's favourite spot. As she looked up, Gretchen's eyes were moist.

"The moon is the sun of the unhappy," she said suddenly. "Hers is the only light that weeping eyes can endure. They must close in the garish rays of the sun, but they can look up to her through their tears. When she reigns in the sky, repose comes to the weary after the day's dull pain. And you, my kind guardian, seem to me like the moon,--you are so calm and still. I shrink from the others, it seems to me they must despise me, but with you I can weep freely, and rest from all my pain."

"I thank you, Gretchen, for these words," said Hilsborn.

And the girl, in the self-abandonment of her grief, leaned her head upon Hilsborn's shoulder and wept silently.

Thus they walked slowly on for a time, without a word. The moon began to disappear behind the firs, and only gleamed through them when the night breeze stirred their boughs. A low whisper,--a soft suggestion of the resurrection,--trembled among the withered leaves and leafless branches. The little silver skiff glided quietly down the horizon, and misty vapours floated about the youthful pair like a bridal veil. Their innocent hearts mourned over scarcely-closed graves in the midst of nature, enlivened by no young blossoms, no nightingale's song, and yet a future spring was gently stirring around and within them, amid tears and autumn desolation.

"We must return," said Gretchen, suddenly rousing herself from her sad thoughts. "They will miss us." And she hastened on in advance of her friend. At the door of the sick-room he detained her for one moment. "Gretchen, you have done more than I can tell for me in this last half-hour, but yet not enough. You will give me just such another every evening, will you not?"

"With all my heart!"

"And, Gretchen, I shall pass this night watching here in this room. Come to the door now and then, and give me one look."

"Why?" she asked, with a blush.

"Because your face is the dearest sight in the world to me."

"Oh, I am glad of that!" she faltered.

"Remember sometimes to give me a smile,--will you not? I shall wait for it from minute to minute and from hour to hour."

"You shall not wait in vain. How could I refuse to gratify a wish of yours?"

And with these words, that were more to the young man than she herself dreamed of, she left him, and entered the sick-room with her heart filled with mingled joy and pain.

Johannes was kneeling by the bed, his forehead leaning upon Ernestine's arm, that was hanging down outside the coverlet. His mother gave Gretchen a kindly nod. No one ventured to speak. Ernestine seemed asleep.

Gretchen sat down beside the Staatsraethin and gratefully pressed her offered hand.

Thus they sat for an hour, motionless, and then Ernestine had a fresh access of delirium. Her whole illness seemed to be only a vain effort of nature to banish the evil, unnatural ideas nestling in her brain like destructive parasites. At last Johannes induced his mother and Willmers to take a little rest while he and Gretchen watched. He suffered so much at the sight of Ernestine's sufferings that it was a relief to him to know that his mother was not in the room,--his mother, in whose presence his affection forced him to exercise such difficult self-control.

Gretchen was a faithful assistant, although the poor child's heart was well-nigh broken at the constant reference to her father that filled Ernestine's ravings. Fragments of the past were brought to light, detached scenes rehearsed incoherently, but running through all the unfortunate daughter could perceive the dark crimson thread of her father's guilt.

The hot tears coursed down her cheeks. Johannes never noticed them. He had eyes and ears only for Ernestine. The poor orphaned child felt alone indeed. But no! How could she entertain such a thought? Had she not a friend and protector near? And had she not promised to bestow a kindly glance now and then upon the faithful sentinel? How could she forget him for one moment? While Johannes stood by Ernestine, she softly opened the door and looked out. There he sat, his eyes full of expectation, and a bright smile broke over his face at the sight of Gretchen. He started up and tore a leaf, upon which he had been writing, out of his note-book.

"Gretchen," he whispered, "here is something for you. Take it, as it is meant,--kindly. You are having a hard night. I can imagine all you are suffering. Do not forget that there is one sitting here thinking of and for you."

Gretchen held out her hand, and he put the paper into it.

"I thank you, even before I know what it contains," she whispered in reply. "It must be something kind, since it comes from you." And she re-entered the sickroom and seated herself by the table upon which the night-lamp stood. She shivered, for Ernestine's words were all full of horror. But she held a talisman in her hand, and Hilsborn's handwriting banished all haunting sorrow. She unfolded the paper and read:

"Weep, poor heart, and yet again Breathe those gentle songs of sadness, Not for thee are notes of gladness, Softly fall thy tears like rain. Look to heaven when woes thus move thee, From the eternal stars above thee Comfort seek in earthly pain.

"Weep, poor heart, when all in vain Thou hast hoped for rest from sadness, When the stars rain down no gladness. Yet despair not! once again Lift thine eyes when sorrow moves thee, In the eyes of one who loves thee, Comfort seek in earthly pain."

Gretchen sat with hands folded, looking at these words, that arched a new heaven above her and revealed a new earth around her. Large as her young heart was, it seemed all too narrow for the flood of tenderness that filled it now. She arose once more, and glided from the room. To Johannes, who gazed after her absently, it seemed as if her airy figure actually diffused a light around it.

In the next room she approached Hilsborn, silently, her eyes suffused with tears, and held out her hand. He looked up at her with imploring entreaty, saw how she was agitated, and that her heart was beating almost to suffocation. He gently drew her nearer and nearer to him, until, like ripened wheat awaiting the reaper's scythe, she sank into his arms, and burst into tears. But her tears were like the glittering drops that the breeze shakes from the trees after a summer rain.

"In the eyes of one who loves thee, Comfort seek in earthly pain,"

echoed in the hearts of the lovers.

Then Ernestine's voice came ringing through the open door. "What is the end? Eternal night, eternal silence, and eternal solitude!"

"Oh, not eternal bliss!" Gretchen breathed softly to herself.