CHAPTER X.

RETURN.

With reawakening strength, entirely novel feelings of affection and interest penetrated Ernestine's nature,--genuine human sympathies, such as her life hitherto had afforded no room for. In a few days the closest intimacy was established between herself and Gretchen. There was a simplicity about Ernestine that no one had believed her to possess. It was as if she now began to live for the first time, as if during the long period of her unconsciousness she had forgotten her former experience of the outward world, and she was as delighted as a child with all that unfolded itself before her eyes. She was as charmed as if she had never seen it before with the sight of the clear autumn sky. She would gaze long and thoughtfully upon the flowers that were laid upon her bed. She eagerly turned over, with Gretchen, the books of rare prints that Johannes brought for her amusement. Hitherto she had known Art only by name, and had not had an idea of its significance. Her uncle had never supplied food for her imagination, lest she should be turned aside from the pursuit of her graver studies. Her weary soul now bathed in the waters of fancy which Johannes unlocked for her refreshment. He brought her photographs of pictures and statues by famous masters, and ideas of the beautiful were awakened within her, filling her with glad inspiration. And Gretchen met her with ready sympathy,--she was in advance of her, indeed, and could point out to her many beauties that else might have escaped her unpractised eyes. At such times Ernestine would regard Gretchen with admiration and surprise. It was a pleasure to see the two girls throwing their whole souls into these new enjoyments together. Even Hilsborn, who since Ernestine's convalescence had naturally been defrauded of many a delightful moment, could not grudge them so pure and true a happiness. Sometimes from morning until night the two lovely heads would be bent together over books and prints, and sometimes they had a companion,--Father Leonhardt, who would come "on purpose," as he expressed it, "to see the new books." But his delight was in listening to Ernestine while she described the pictures minutely, oftentimes with so much truth and spirit that the old man would clasp his hands and cry, "How beautiful that must be!"

"Do you see it, Father Leonhardt?" she would ask in her zeal, and the old man would reply delightedly, "Yes, I see it!"

And when anything pleased him particularly, he would ask, "Show me that picture again!" and Ernestine was unwearied in her descriptions and explanations.

Johannes and his mother were enchanted with this rejuvenation, as it might be called.

She avoided with secret dislike any return to her former world of thought,--it was too harsh a contrast to her present delight,--she seemed actually disgusted with the anatomical pursuits which had led her to dissect so curiously what now gave her so much pleasure. She would not again descend into those gloomy depths whence she had drawn nothing but despair, and all that she now looked upon was as novel and strange as if she had spent the last ten years immured in a tower, from which she had only looked out upon God's fair world from a far-off height.

Her recovery advanced so rapidly that eight days after her first awaking to consciousness she was able to be carried by Johannes and Gretchen into the library, once more restored to order and comfort by the faithful care of Willmers. She was placed in an arm-chair, and, as the Staatsraethin covered her with a warm, soft coverlet, she said in a weak voice, "Now let us begin where we left off ten years ago!"

The Staatsraethin stooped, and, kissing her brow, whispered softly, "It is a pity so much time has been lost!"

"Oh, no,--not a pity," replied Ernestine,--"no time spent in searching for truth is lost; but the measure of my strength is exhausted. I must give up."

And, with a melancholy smile, she leaned back her head and was silent

The days passed on, and the time approached very nearly when Moellner must return to his duties in town. Ernestine grew more silent and thoughtful. No one could understand the change in her mood, for her physical condition improved daily, while she fell into a state of depression such as had not befallen her since she began to recover. At last Heim decreed that she must have fresh air, and one warm noon she drove out for the first time. She had begged that Gretchen alone might accompany her, and the Moellners had, although unwillingly, acceded to her request, Johannes carefully lifting her into the carriage.

"Gretchen," said Ernestine, as they drove along, "Dr. Moellner has twice alluded to the fact that in two or three days he, with his mother, must move back to town, as his lectures at the University will begin again. You heard how they took it for granted that we should accompany them. I made only evasive answers, but now I must resolve what to do. Gretchen, you have often told me that your peace of mind depended upon your helping to support me as long as I needed you." She looked searchingly at the girl. "What if I were to take you at your word?"

"I should keep it, for I gave it not only to you, but to God Almighty," said Gretchen. "Tell me, Ernestine, what I can do for you."

"Everything!" cried Ernestine. "You can save me from living upon charity."

"How so?"

"Can you not imagine, Gretchen, what it must be to me to accept further benefits from people whom I long to repay in kind, whom I would like to reward a thousandfold for all that they have done for me? I do not know whether you understand me when I tell you that I would far rather earn my living by the work of my hands than depend upon the kindness of those whom I once treated so arrogantly, and who have already heaped more coals of fire upon my head than I can bear. You shake your head. Your father, Gretchen, would have understood me,--his words upon this subject, the evening before he left me, are ineffaceably impressed upon my mind."

"Forgive me, Ernestine, it does not become me to depreciate my father still further in your eyes, but I cannot be silent! I have arrived at the melancholy conviction that my father never advised you well. He was wrong here too. He did not know Dr. Moellner,--he could not conceive of the depth and truth of his affection for you. Will you reward the man who has done so much for you by making him wretched? You certainly will do so if you refuse to go with him. No, Ernestine, I do not understand how you can break a man's heart just for the sake of your pride!"

Ernestine did not speak for a few moments, and then she said, "Gretchen, you are a child,--I cannot explain to you that there is a principle of honour to which one must sacrifice the happiness of a life, should circumstances demand it. You know, perhaps, that when I was wealthy and independent, Moellner offered me his hand, and that I refused it, because I could not fulfil the conditions that he proposed. Since that time his conduct has failed to assure me that he still loves me, for a nature as noble as his, is perfectly capable of sacrificing all that he has for me, from pure sympathy and mere compassion. And, even if he still loved me, could he value a heart open to the suspicion of surrendering itself to him under the pressure of necessity, not from free choice? No, Gretchen, there can be no firm structure of happiness erected upon such a foundation. This is not the time when I could withdraw my refusal to be his wife! No, no! such a course at this point would fix the blush of shame upon my forehead forever. Perhaps I may still succeed in obtaining an independence by my own exertions,--an independence that will again make me his equal. Then it would be different,--then he would know that I gave myself to him from free choice, not upon compulsion. If he should woo me then,--oh, Gretchen, it would be happiness that I scarcely dare to think of!"

Gretchen kissed a tear from Ernestine's pale cheek, and said gently, "You are not like any one else, but always true and noble. I have no right to judge you. If you say, 'Thus shall it be,' I will submit. My only desire is to obey you."

"You shall not obey me, Gretchen, but you shall be my guide in a world where I am a stranger,--you shall lend me your arm to support me until I can stand alone. Will you not?"

"Yes," was the low reply. The girl was thinking of Hilsborn and his sorrow at the postponement of his hopes and of her own hopes also, and she tried to take heart and tell her cousin that she loved and was loved in return, and that she would be able to offer her an asylum. But Gretchen paused, and bethought herself. Ernestine would never accept from Hilsborn what she refused to receive from Moellner. She could not make such an offer without offending Ernestine, and, if Ernestine learned how matters stood with Gretchen, she would assuredly refuse all assistance or service from her that could delay her happiness with Hilsborn. For Ernestine's proud nature never could endure the thought of being a burden to any one Gretchen had felt all this from the first, and therefore had insisted that her betrothal should be kept secret from Ernestine. And could she tell her of it now? She controlled herself, and was silent.

"I will tell you my plan," Ernestine began. "Of course I have given up the idea of going to America. I could never do what would be required of me there, without assistance, and, even if I could, I would not leave home and all that I love for the sake of mere fame. I will try to find a position as a teacher of natural science in some institution, or, failing that, I will go out as a private governess. But I know how ignorant I am of everything that is looked for from a woman in such a position. I know nothing of feminine occupations myself, and, of course, am quite unfit to have the entire charge of children. I understand no art,--I am deficient in all practical knowledge,--the knowledge that I possess is seldom needed in life. This I have learned since I have seen something of the world. You, Gretchen, are my only hope. You will teach me everything,--you are a proficient in all that a woman should know. I must leave this place. I must get away from this part of the country. Until I am out of Moellner's reach, there will be no peace either for him or for me. He would always be thinking that he ought to take me from my position, and there would be endless struggles. So I think it would be best that we two should retire to some small town, as far off as my means will permit, and then, if you would sacrifice to me a few months of your young, hopeful life, until I should be sufficiently far advanced to procure a situation."----She got so far with difficulty, and then, breaking off, asked humbly, "Is this asking too much of you? The world is open to you, Gretchen. Every one would welcome you back from your seclusion. Moellner's house will always be a home for you, where you may be tenderly cared for. Will you sacrifice all this to me, for a little while?"

"With all my heart," said Gretchen. "But, dearest Ernestine, have we the means to carry out this plan? All that I possess is three gold pieces that I found in the pocket of the dress that my mother gave me. Look, here they are--I always carry them about me. My mother had written upon the paper in which they were wrapped, 'To be used in case of necessity.' I meant to spend them for you, for you are all the 'necessity' that I have. Take them,--they are all that I have, but I am afraid they will not go far."

"Thank you, you dear faithful little sister!" cried Ernestine. "We are not so poor as you think. Dr. Moellner has succeeded in saving all my furniture from your father's creditors. The sale of it will bring us in a sum sufficient to support us until I shall find a situation."

"The question is, then, how long that will be," said Gretchen, thoughtfully.

"Only a few months at the longest, I should suppose."

Gretchen was startled, but she only said gently, "Then we had better select a place where I too can earn something, that there may be no danger of our suffering from want."

"That shall be as you think best," replied Ernestine. "I put myself entirely in your hands,--only take me away secretly, so that no one may seek to detain us."

"Must no one know anything of it? Must I tell nobody?"

"Do you suppose we should be allowed to go, Gretchen, if our intention was suspected? If you are afraid that you cannot keep our departure secret, tell me so frankly, and I will go alone, without your knowledge."

"Oh, no, Ernestine, I will not let you go out into the world alone. What are all my resolutions and protestations worth, if I fail you at the outset? But there is one person, Ernestine, to whom I owe a certain obedience, my guardian! I am not of age, as you are. I cannot do just as I please. I must ask him whether I may go with you--but I will answer for his secrecy. He shall promise me, before I confide in him, that he will not betray my confidence,--and he always keeps his promises."

Ernestine considered for a moment. "Yes, I see this cannot be avoided. I rely upon you. Johannes and his mother are going to drive into town together in a few days to prepare a room for us in their house. When they return in the evening, they must not find us here."

"I cannot help feeling," said Gretchen, "as if I were guilty of treachery towards all these kind people. I never deceived any one in my life before; I feel like a criminal."

"We will not deceive them, only spare them a parting scene that would be painful to us all,--we will not impose upon them the necessity of preventing what in their hearts they may think best for us. When we are once away, I will write and explain to them what we have done, and they will understand me."

"Ernestine, I will pray God to give you more love and less pride. My only hope is that you will not long be able to live without the faithful friend who loves you so devotedly."

Ernestine looked out of the carriage-window without a word. The fields were bare and deserted, but the spiders' webs, that lay like nets upon the stubble, glistened in the sunlight. Here and there the peasants were burning underbrush, and the red flames darted with a merry crackle through the thick white smoke that the autumn breeze kept lying low upon the ground. The cattle were gleaning a scanty meal from the shorn pastures,--they raised their heads to look after the carriage as it passed, or to rub their necks against some dried old stump of a tree. In the distance, a sportsman was making his toilsome way through the deep furrows of a ploughed field, while his dog busied himself among the hedges until he started a covey of birds, and the fatal crack of the gun was heard. A wagon, laden high with full wine-casks, passed along the road,--the boy that was driving had a bunch of withered asters in his hat, and cracked his whip gaily at sight of Gretchen's lovely face, while the little dog perched on the top of the load barked angrily. "Every one is making ready for winter," said Gretchen. "How much labour meat and drink cost!"

The carriage turned towards the village, and Ernestine called to the coachman to stop at the school-house,--"I must see the Leonhardts once more." As they reached the low-roofed house, one of the windows was opened, and Frau Brigitta looked out. "Good-morning, Frau Leonhardt," cried Ernestine from the carriage.

"My dear Fraeulein Ernestine, I can hardly trust my eyes!" And out she came to the carriage-door. "Come in, come in, both of you,--I will bring Bernhard--he is with Kaethchen in the garden. But Walter is in the house. He is so happy with the things you have sent him! He studies night and day!" Thus the old woman ran on, as she assisted her guests to alight.

"I think," said Ernestine, "that I should like to go into the garden to Father Leonhardt."

"Just as you please. He is sitting round the corner, in the sun."

"Go into the house, then, Gretchen," said Ernestine. "I will come in one moment."

And she went round the house as quickly as her strength would permit, and approached the old man, who was teaching Kaethchen her lesson. The child would have run to meet her, but Ernestine motioned to her not to speak, and knelt silently down by Leonhardt.

"Who is this?" he asked.

Ernestine made no reply, but imprinted a kiss upon his hand. He smiled. "Oh, it is my daughter Ernestine!"

"Yes, father, it is I," she said. "I come to you the first time that I have driven out. There is much within me that is still dark. I come to you for light."

"You bring me light, and do you ask me to give you light? But I know what you mean, and I will give you all that I have. Heaven may make me, poor blind old man, its instrument in comforting and assisting you. Tell me, then, Ernestine, why does the sunshine that now floods your life fail to penetrate your heart?"

"Send the child away, father."

"Go, Kaethi dear," Leonhardt said.

"To Walter?" the little girl asked, delighted.

"Yes, if he is not busy,--see that you do not trouble him."

Kaethchen still lingered, with a look of inquiry at Ernestine, who perceived it, and held out her hand. "My good little Kaethchen, do you remember me? I would like to give you a kiss, but you might fear my touch would harm you again."

"Oh, no. That cannot be," said Kaethchen. "I am not at all afraid of you."

"Then come here, my sweet child." And she took her upon her lap, and kissed her kindly. It was the first time that she had ever had a child in her arms, and the pleasure that it gave her was new and strange.

"Oh, Father Leonhardt," she said, "how many different kinds of love there are! Strange that they all seem so new and delightful to me!"

"You are like the man with the heart of stone, in Hauff's story. Your uncle put a marble heart in your breast, and Moellner has given you a warm, living heart instead."

Ernestine blushed at these words. She was glad that Leonhardt could not see her, yet he did see her.

"He brings a blessing wherever he comes," the old man continued. "He has done everything for this child. Did he tell you? The Countess Worronska sent the forty thousand roubles, as she promised, and Dr. Moellner succeeded at last in persuading the Kellers to send Kaethchen to a good school. She will leave now in about a week."

"I knew nothing of it," said Ernestine.

"It is not his custom to speak of the good he does," said Leonhardt, "but indeed he is a benefactor to all."

"A benefactor to all," Ernestine repeated thoughtfully. "All the less should any one individual boast of his kindness,--a kindness shown to all, without respect of persons."

Leonhardt involuntarily turned his darkened eyes towards her as she spoke thus. "Go, Kaethchen," he said, "Fraeulein Ernestine will come by-and-by."

Kaethchen went into the house, and, not finding Walter in the sitting-room, mounted to his study, in the upper story, just under the roof. She nestled up to his side and said, with an air of great mystery, "Only think! the lady of the castle has kissed me again!"

"Not possible!" laughed Walter. "And do you feel nothing queer?"

"Of course not," Kaethchen cried in some confusion. "She can't bewitch me."

"I wouldn't like to try her," said Walter with an involuntary sigh. "I think, if I had been in your place, I should have felt the enchantment instantly."

"Why, you told me yourself there was no such thing," said Kaethchen.

"Well, Kaethi," said the young man, "it would be as well, perhaps, for the sake of precaution, that I should kiss off her kisses. Where was it?--here?"

"Yes, and here on my forehead, and on my shoulder."

"There, we will put an end to all that," cried Walter, as he kissed the child. "And now go down-stairs. I must work."

"Oh, you always have to work," Kaethchen complained.

"Yes, you school-children have the best time, with nothing to do but laugh and play, while I have all the studying. Go now, and when the Fraeulein comes in from the garden, come and call me."

"Yes, I'll call you. Good-by. But promise me that you won't tell that the Fraeulein kissed me. They would all scold and laugh at me."

"Oh, no,--not for the world. Where's the use of telling everything? But you mustn't love the Fraeulein better than you do me, or I must tell your mother."

"Oh, no. I love you best of all the world!" cried Kaethchen, shutting the door behind her with emphasis. She had been but a few moments with Gretchen and Frau Brigitta when Ernestine entered with Leonhardt. Both looked agitated, and Ernestine's eyes showed traces of tears.

Kaethchen would have gone to call Walter, as she had been told to do.

"Stay, Kaethchen," said Ernestine, "I will go up to Herr Leonhardt myself and see what he is doing."

And she took Father Leonhardt's arm, and with him ascended the narrow staircase.

Walter sprang up, with flushed cheeks, when Ernestine and his father entered his room.

"Have you come all the way up here?" he exclaimed, "you, before whom I stand humbly as a mere pupil,--revering you almost as the very personification of Science?"

"Do not speak thus, Walter,--you do not know what you are saying. I have, through much pain, obtained the victory over self, and will content myself with my lot as a woman, but I am weak, and such speeches might easily arouse again within me the demon of ambition. Yon mean it kindly, but, now that I stand on the borders of the realm I have forsaken, I must not listen to any voice recalling me to that dear old home. I have come to take leave of you. Your father will tell you wherefore and whither I am going."

"Oh, Fraeulein Ernestine, are you going away? and are you going to give up your studies too?"

"I must resign them, Walter, or at least all scientific pursuits. My knowledge must be to me now a means of support, and in these days it can serve me only in the position of a governess. I must content myself with teaching in a girls' school. Men do not want women for professors, and no man wants a professor for a wife. The world is not what I dreamed,--there is no place in it for a woman's efforts, and I am too weak to create one for myself."

"What a shame it is," said Walter, "that such a woman should need to create a place for herself! she should be placed upon a pedestal and worshipped, if only for the sake of such a mind in such a body."

Leonhardt laid his hand in warning upon the boy's arm.

"Father, I must speak," he went on. "I must give some relief to the indignation that fills me at the idea of such a nature's being condemned to contend in the world for the bare means of subsistence."

Ernestine hid her face in her hands, and sighed heavily.

Leonhardt shook his head disapprovingly at his son. "It is not kind, Walter, to make the sacrifice harder than it need be. Ernestine is and always must be noble, and never was she nobler than in her present resolution. We cannot change the world, Walter, and Ernestine is a woman,--she must submit."

"Yes, submit!" she repeated, and there was a keener pain in her accents.

"Fraeulein Ernestine," Walter implored her, "forgive me if I have revived buried griefs. I meant well,--I cannot tell you what pain it gives me to see you giving up what is so dear to you, and for me your going is like the departure of his muse to the poet,--the vanishing of his saint to the rapt devotee."

"Walter," Ernestine said gravely, "your words tempt me sorely, but, I hope, for the last time. I will resist them, and when you are older you will know why I do so. You are very young, Walter. It is not long, scarcely six weeks, since I was so too. In this short time I have grown older by six years, and the world and mankind are changed in my eyes,--I must struggle now for the simple means of subsistence."

She went to the bookshelves, on which the bright rays of the sun were just falling. "Yes, dear old Darwin, your famous name still shines brightly upon me. I now begin to understand you and to appreciate the sublime import of your teachings."

She held out her hand to Walter, with tears in her eyes. "Thank you for the opportunity of trying my strength for one moment. It has been a melancholy satisfaction. A bright future is before you; if I have contributed in a degree to the realization of your hopes in life, I will descend cheerfully from the heights I dreamed of,--I have not lived in vain. I must go."

She looked around the room. Wherever her glance fell, it rested upon some of her books or instruments. "Keep all these things for me, Walter,--perhaps I may reclaim them at some future day." Again tears filled her eyes. She knew she was never again to possess, what had been so long the sole joy of her life, the companions of her labours. "No, let them go. I release from my service the spirits prisoned in these instruments that have brought the stars near to me and revealed the hidden mysteries of the earth to my asking eyes. They can serve me no longer,--I must return to the every-day world,--the spell is broken,--knowledge and sight are mine no longer."

She left the room noiselessly, and her old friend followed her.

A quarter of an hour later, the carriage rolled away from the school-house towards the castle, and the Leonhardts, father and son, stood on the threshold, the one gazing after the distant carriage, the other listening intently to the last sound of its wheels.

Ernestine, sunk in thought, was leaning back in the vehicle, when she suddenly called to the coachman to stop. They were just passing the church.

"Stay here and wait for me," she said to Gretchen. "I must go in here for a moment."

She got out, and went to the door, which stood ajar. Her hand lingered on the latch. What impelled her thus irresistibly to enter this poor little village church?--Memory! Like a painted curtain, all the events, thoughts, experiences, of the last ten years were hung around the low portal. Again she stood before the church-door of her northern home, a trembling, longing, doubting, despairing child. "Enter, and learn to kneel," the same voice within that spoke then was speaking now. And she entered, softly and timidly. It was empty and quiet,--the people were all at their work. The floor between the benches was strewn with green box twigs from the last holiday, and the atmosphere was filled with the odour of incense. Through the painted window the sun threw many-coloured rays upon a picture of the Virgin. A swallow, scared from his summer's nest in the dome, flew circling above Ernestine's head, like the dove of the Holy Spirit. Ernestine slowly passed the quiet confessionals, where so many sorrow-laden hearts had unburdened themselves of their weight of woe and received forgiveness in the name of the Lord. She thought with compassion of the cumbrous formalities that separated these wandering souls from their hope and trust. "Straight to Him," breathed the voice within, and she passed with quickened steps over the soft, leaf-strewn floor, directly to the altar. Was it the same at which she had knelt and wept ten years before? Whether it were or not. He was the same Divine One whose image looked down from the cross, touching her heart now as it had touched it then. She knew now that she had but completed a circle, and had come back to the point at which she had been ten years before.

And she extended her arms and fell upon her knees. "Father," she cried, "I have come back,--receive me! ah, receive me!"