A Noble Name; or, Dönninghausen

CHAPTER XXVII

THE FREIHERR'S WEAKNESS IS PAST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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