A Noble Name; or, Dönninghausen

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE TERRACE-COTTAGE

Batti made no opposition to Johanna's plans further than was demanded by courtesy; in fact, he was glad not to have opposite him at every meal her dark, serious eyes, in which he read now melancholy, and now, as it seemed to him, reproach. And Helena soon contrived to persuade him to consent to leave Lisbeth with her sister when they left Hanover, representing to him that the child would be more likely to overcome the repugnance she now felt to the circus if she were to hear and see nothing of it for a time.

So the very next morning Johanna removed to her terrace-cottage. Helena and Lisbeth accompanied her. Helena was dissatisfied; she thought the house too small, the rooms too plain. Lisbeth, on the contrary, was enraptured. The little rooms, the odd terrace, the six sisters, who were so merry and kind, took her childish heart by storm. "Rika, Fanny, Jetta, Minny, Annie, Sanna," she repeated to herself; and when her mother called her to go, she begged to be allowed to stay with Johanna. "You know, mamma dear, you are never, never at home." And Helena, who could not bear to forego an entertainment of any kind, yielded to the little one's persuasions.

And for like reasons the child was soon left entirely with her sister. Helena's time was much occupied, as she was to leave town so shortly, and then it would be well for the little girl to become accustomed to her new home. "A mother must learn to forget herself," she said, and she was content with having Lisbeth with her for a couple of hours in the hotel every day, and with now and then calling for her to drive.

But when the final separation took place she made no attempt at self-control; never heeding the physician's warning that the excitable child must not be agitated in any way. Johanna had taken Lisbeth to the hotel, and Helena, sobbing convulsively, clasped her in her arms, declaring that she would soon, soon return, never to be separated from her darling more. Her husband led her away, and his own eyes were moist. Johanna could not refuse to take the hand he offered her in farewell.

They went. Johanna let the child look out of the hotel window while 'mamma and Uncle Carlo' got into the vehicle which was to take them to the railway station. They looked up and nodded; the horses started. Helena leaned out of the carriage-window, her fair curls fanning her pretty face, her blue eyes filled with tears. She gracefully threw a kiss to the child at the window. Johanna was never to forget the picture.

After this departure, that is, now that the routine of the day was no longer disturbed by Helena's caprices, Johanna's life was duly and methodically arranged. For a while Lisbeth rebelled a little against the stupid work which took up so much of her sister's time, and to which also all the other inmates of 'Terrace-Cottage' seemed devoted. The father, a kind old man, who could tell the most delightful stories, and who every evening accompanied with his violin his daughter's performance upon the piano, taught in the public school. The two oldest daughters gave music-lessons, the third helped her mother about the house, and the three 'little ones' went off to school every day, with heavy satchels and a most important air. In a short time Lisbeth grew weary of her idleness, and as soon as the physician, who continued to look after her now and then, gave his consent, she, to her intense delight, accompanied her beloved Sanna to school.

Dr. Wolf was not satisfied with Johanna's mode of life. "Remember what Goethe says about the man 'who devotes himself to solitude,'" he said. "The author must not be alone; the full stream of being must bring him refreshment and invigoration. And it is well also, for material reasons, that he should be known personally."

Johanna did not agree with him. More than aught else, she assured him, she needed repose. She had much to overcome and to analyze in herself before she could attempt to create a position for herself. She did not confess to him how crushed she was by her experience with Batti and Dr. Stein. She dreaded the sight of a strange face. Her intercourse with Dr. Wolf and the inmates of the house sufficed her, and when she was tired of work, a walk in the quiet fields, or a rest on the terrace in the shade of the lindens, restored her courage. Even the simple musical performances in the evenings refreshed her more and more. The old teacher's exquisite taste supplied his want of technique. Many a brilliant performance in her father's house had failed to give Johanna such an insight into Haydn and Mozart as she now gained from this reverent, child-like nature. Or was it that she had become more impressionable? Her greatest gain, however, was in the constant companionship of her little sister, in the consciousness that, for a while at least, the child was physically, morally, and mentally breathing a healthy atmosphere. Now for the first time Lisbeth learned to laugh and play without thinking of the impression she was producing. She often spoke of her pretty mamma, but as of some image of a fairy-tale, which had no place in every-day life.

And one day – Helena had already written twice from Brussels in raptures with the charming city – there came a letter from Batti with terrible news. He and Helena had driven out with a new pair of young horses; the fiery animals had run away. Helena, needlessly terrified, had jumped out of the carriage, and in so doing had received injuries from which she had died in a few hours. "If I die, Johanna must take care of Lisbeth," she had repeatedly declared; and although Batti passionately longed for his step-daughter, he thought it his duty to fulfil his wife's last wishes. Perhaps when Lisbeth was perfectly well Johanna might take pity upon his desolate existence and bring the child to him for a while. For the present, he went on to say, the sight of her would be more than he could bear. And he could not stay in Brussels. He should probably go immediately to St. Petersburg, or to Paris, or to London. It was all the same to him now, only he must flee from the place where he had had so terrible an experience. But wherever he might be, he should labour for Lisbeth. The hope of providing brilliantly for her future was now the only tie that bound him to life and that could console him for his lost happiness.

He hoped that Johanna would aid him in making the child happy. She must fulfil her every wish, and surround the lovely little creature with all the splendour in which Helena had so delighted.

At this moment Lisbeth, who had been playing with the 'little ones,' came running merrily into the room. "Hanna dear, what is the matter?" she cried, when she saw the tears in her sister's eyes.

Johanna clasped her in her arms. "Come, my darling," she whispered, holding her in a close embrace. "Now you have no one except your sister; now you are all my own."

CHAPTER XXIX

CHANGES AT DÖNNINGHAUSEN

In Dönninghausen they were looking for Johann Leopold's return. He had not informed his relatives of the precise day upon which it would take place, for he wished to avoid all demonstrations of welcome. Hence, when he arrived by an afternoon train at Thalrode, no carriage had been sent to meet him, and the innkeeper, who was wont to supply a conveyance upon such occasions, begged him, with many excuses, to wait half an hour, since, because of the harvesting, all the horses were in the fields. Johann Leopold ordered a glass of beer to be brought to him in the summer-house, and after dismissing the garrulous host, he sat in the shady nook, contemplating his native mountains with a delight of which he had not supposed himself capable.

In outward appearance he was scarcely changed. His pale face was slightly tanned, his form a shade less bent, his movements only a little more elastic than before his travels. And within? He was not yet entirely free from the mental depression caused by the disease which he had inherited, but it did not weigh upon him so heavily. The attacks of the malady had for a year been very slight, and for months there had not even been any recurrence of them. Heaven might, perhaps, yet smile upon him. And if, as his grandfather's last letter declared, Magelone was looking forward with longing to his return, if she could really love him, and would wait until with a clear conscience he could call her his own! With a sigh he passed his hand over his forehead and eyes. But to-day these fair pictures of the future would not, as usual, be banished; they beckoned to him enticingly upon his return to his home. And he had struggled so long against soul and sense, and he was so weary of the conflict.

Approaching footsteps roused him from his revery.

"Good-day, Squire! Are you back again?" called a hoarse voice, and Red Jakob held out his hand to his young master.

Johann Leopold shook it as he had done since they were boys together. "Well, Jakob," he said, "you look all right again. I hope you and Christine are getting along well in your nest in the forest."

"Thanks, Squire, as well as possible," Jakob replied; and as, without more ado, he took a seat opposite Johann Leopold, he added, "I'm right glad to see you here. With the best will in the world I've done a deal of mischief, and my only hope is that you, Squire, will settle it all again."

"I certainly will if I can," Johann Leopold replied. "In a day or two I'll come and see you, and we'll discuss the matter."

"No, Squire; you must listen now," Jakob interposed. "If you get up there" – he pointed toward Dönninghausen – "and they all tell their stories, you'll never be able to understand. But I tell you, and I'll swear to it, that the gracious Fruleen was not to blame, and was – that it was a sin and a shame to send her off like a dog with the mange – "

"Jakob, are you speaking of my cousin?" Johann Leopold interrupted him. "Recollect yourself, and don't talk nonsense. She went voluntarily to her relatives after she had voluntarily broken her engagement."

"Indeed? All for her own pleasure?" said Jakob, with a malicious grin. "Of course that's what the two say who are to blame for it all. To her relatives, you say? She has gone to the circus-riders. You can read it there with your own eyes." He laid a little leather wallet on the table, and with his sound hand took from it a cutting from a newspaper, which he handed to Johann Leopold. "Christine almost cried her eyes out over it," he went on, "and I promised her that I would tell you, that you may bring the gracious Fruleen back again, and turn out those who deserve it."

Johann Leopold ran through Dr. Stein's newspaper notice. "Nonsense!" he said, knitting his brows. "There are just as many lies printed as uttered. But what do you mean by the two who are to blame? What business is the affair of yours? You are and always were an insolent fellow – "

"Squire!" shouted Red Jakob, and an evil light shone in his deep-set eyes; but, after a pause, he continued, more gently: "I do deserve a scolding this time, although not for what you think. It fretted me to see the gracious Fruleen so deceived. I saw them both in the forest – Squire Otto and Frau von Magelone – who was at Klausenburg on a visit. They grew bolder and bolder, and more and more loving, and meanwhile the wedding-day was coming nearer and nearer. At last I could not look on any longer, and I just brought the gracious Fruleen upon them unexpectedly, when they were clasped in each other's arms, forgetting all the world beside."

"Go on!" said Johann Leopold, who sat pale and rigid, his head leaning on his hand.

Red Jakob shrugged his shoulders: "There's not much more to tell. The gracious Fruleen was like a marble statue. She said not one word, but her eyes looked like a dying deer's. I called Christine to talk to her, but it was no use! I was afraid she'd do herself a mischief. Of course I don't know what happened at the castle; but the gracious Fruleen has gone, and Squire Otto is snug and warm in Tannhagen, and as for the gracious Frau von Magelone – "

"That's enough, Jakob!" Johann Leopold interrupted him, rising as he spoke. "Depend upon it that all that should be done shall be done. There comes the carriage. You can get up beside the driver, and he'll take you as far as the Klausenburg cross-roads."

"Thanks, Squire, I have something to do in Thalrode." The host came running to help the Herr into the carriage. Johann Leopold sank back wearily in a corner of the vehicle.

"He's no better," said Jakob, as he stood looking after his master.

"And no friendlier," muttered the innkeeper. "A stiff-necked, haughty set they all are at Dönninghausen."

Red Jakob laughed derisively to himself. "You ought to call it proud and stately!" he cried. "That kind is measured by another scale and rule from what they apply to us."

And proud and stately it certainly looked when the carriage bearing home the heir drove into the court-yard, and the servants came hurrying from all directions. Leo circled about the conveyance barking joyously, and old Christian with tears of joy opened the carriage-door, while the Freiherr in all his dignity appeared at the top of the castle steps.

"God bless you, my dear boy!" he cried in sonorous tones as he embraced his grandson, and his eager glance scanned the face and figure of the young man, who did his best to bear himself bravely.

"My dear grandfather, how glad I am to see you so unchanged!" he said cordially, and then he embraced Aunt Thekla, who advanced from the background, where stood Magelone with blushing face, sparkling eyes, and a sweet smile upon her lips. And with this same sweet, treacherous smile, as Johann Leopold called it to himself, she held out both hands to him, and in a tender whisper, such as he had never heard from her before, breathed, "Thank God for your safe and happy return!"

For a moment he was tempted, in spite of all he had heard, to snatch her to his heart; but he controlled himself, and only kissed her hand. Magelone changed colour. She had expected a warmer greeting. The next moment, however, her face was as bright as before; Johann Leopold did not yet know her sentiments with regard to him and his farewell letter. He should learn them as soon as possible; perhaps she might even find a time to explain them to him to-day.

If he would only be a little more like a lover! Instead of following Magelone into the garden when the Freiherr retired after dinner, he joined Aunt Thekla on the terrace.

For a while he freely answered all her questions. At length he said, "Aunt Thekla, I have some information to ask of you. Red Jakob, whom I encountered by chance in Thalrode to-day, told me some strange things, the nature of which I hardly need explain to you."

Aunt Thekla made no reply, but her face betrayed her dismay.

"You wrote me," Johann Leopold went on, after a pause, "that you had agreed never to speak of Johanna. I am sorry to grieve you, but I should be sorry to do any one injustice: therefore pray tell me, did Otto give Johanna cause for jealousy? I do not ask for any details; I ask but a simple yes or no."

"He knows everything," the old lady said to herself, and, incapable of a direct denial of the truth, she answered, "Yes, unfortunately!"

Johann Leopold's head sank upon his breast. "And my grandfather was told nothing of this?" he asked.

"No; my brother thinks that Otto and Johanna quarrelled on account of her paternal relatives; that Otto required her to choose between ourselves and those people – "

"And Otto allowed my grandfather to remain in this error?" cried Johann Leopold.

His aunt laid her hand on his arm in terror. "You will not explain it to him? Oh, I beg you, I entreat you, not to do so! You can do no good. Johanna cannot live among us again. And my brother, with his sense of honour, – his devotion to duty – Oh, I pray you spare him!" And she burst into tears.

"Be easy," said Johann Leopold. "I promise you to tell my grandfather nothing that need not be told. One question more. What do you know of Johanna?"

"She is with her step-mother. The woman has married again, – the circus-rider Batti, and poor Johanna has joined his troupe."

It was true, then! Johann Leopold had put no faith in the newspaper notice which Red Jakob had given him, but he now reflected that this was the natural course of things. The artist-blood of her father, and her step-mother's unfortunate second marriage, had, when she had broken with Dönninghausen, forced Johanna into the path she had taken. Perhaps, with her intensity of nature, she had meant to erect an insuperable barrier between the past and the present. She had done so. This barrier was as insurmountable in Johann Leopold's estimation as in the eyes of the world. Every drop of blood in his body was in revolt against the rider in Carlo Batti's troupe. And Aunt Thekla's 'Johanna can never live among us again' was the expression of his own conviction.

That was past and done with; but then – ? Why could not his relations with Magelone remain what they had been? And why, if he must renounce her, could he not at least retain her image in stainless beauty? Her reception of him to-day, after what had occurred between Otto and herself, was a double treachery. Was she, perhaps, endeavouring from fear of her grandfather, from remorse – from a sense of duty – to conquer her heart? This must not be. It was absolutely necessary that he should resign all illusions; he must at once and forever resist temptation, fair though it was to see.

He looked up with a sigh. Magelone was just coming along the avenue, her airy figure, her light curls flooded with the golden evening glow. She was, in Johann Leopold's eyes, the very ideal of all beauty and grace. She lightly hurried up the terrace steps, and in another moment had thrown about Johann Leopold's shoulders a fragrant wreath of vines and flowers. "There! you shall not escape all reception festivities," she said, archly. "How will you defend yourself? Flowery chains should not be torn asunder."

"Why not? Rather a torn wreath than a withered one," he answered, bitterly, as he tossed the garland aside.

"Ugh! what a tone, and what a face!" cried Magelone. "They would do for a farewell. But when one returns, and is received as cordially as you have been – " She paused suddenly, sat down beside Aunt Thekla, and looked abroad into the park.

"A return is often sadder than a departure," said Johann Leopold. "I have found much change here, and am myself more changed than all, and this you ought to know – Stay, Aunt Thekla!" he begged, as the old lady arose. "You must hear what I have to say to Magelone."

For a moment he paused, fearful of losing his self-control, then continued, with apparent calm: "It is with regard, my dear Magelone, to our grandfather's desire for our marriage. You have tried hard to reconcile yourself to the thought of it, and I – although I saw how difficult this was for you – I persuaded myself for a while that you might succeed. This is over! When I went away I meant to be magnanimous in bestowing upon you a partial freedom; it could only be partial, since you knew me still bound. But now I relieve you of this last fetter; you owe me no further consideration. We are both entirely free."

His voice had grown clear and firm. As he said the last words he arose. "Good-night," he added, offering his hand to his aunt and to Magelone. "You will have to excuse me. I am fatigued by my journey."

Magelone gave him her finger-tips without looking at him, but he possessed himself of her hand. "You know, do you not, that I am your friend?" he asked. "If I can ever testify this to you by deed, apply to me. Will you promise me this?"

"Certainly. I know well how trustworthy you are!" she cried, derisively, as she withdrew her hand and looked up to him with a strange flickering light in her eyes. "Moreover, you can do something for me immediately. I want to go away! Beg grandpapa to let me go – "

"My child, what are you thinking of?" cried Aunt Thekla. And Johann Leopold asked, —

"Do you wish to go on my account?"

She tossed her head, and her cheek flushed. "On your account? What an idea! Why, we are the very best of friends!" she said, still more derisively than before. "No; it is the old Dönninghausen tedium that drives me away. Aunt Thekla knows how I have borne it for years."

"But, my child, you were away all last winter!" her aunt remonstrated.

"In Hedwig's and Hildegard's nurseries. Am I to regard that as a delight?" exclaimed Magelone. "I should like for once to have a little pleasure. I want to go to Vienna, to the Walburgs'; and from them, if I can find a good escort, I want to go to St. Petersburg, to Waldemar and his wife. They have invited me so often."

"Otto's brother. He is probably to be won over to approve their marriage," was Johann Leopold's surmise, as he replied, "I will do what I can, dear Magelone. But if, in spite of all I can do, our grandfather still says no, – you know he does not like to have women travel without urgent reasons, – you will find here at hand what you look for in St. Petersburg."

He meant, an advocate of the desire of her heart. She did not understand him. "What I am looking for is deliverance from this place!" she cried, with burning cheeks. "If grandpapa says no, I shall go without his permission. I have castigated myself sufficiently out of regard for the family." She gathered up her long white dress, and hurried past Johann Leopold down into the garden.

Aunt Thekla looked beseechingly at her nephew. "Do not be angry with her; you have each misunderstood the other," she began. But he interrupted her: "I am not angry, and I have not misunderstood her. On the contrary, I know what she wishes and needs, and I mean, so far as I can, to help her and Otto. Pray tell her this in your kind, gentle way. You see I am too awkward to do so."

With these words he kissed her hand, and went into the house.

The old lady looked after him in painful perplexity. At first it seemed to her advisable to explain to him his error. But what could she say to him? Only that Magelone had been determined to marry him. If he should wish to know more, if he should ask, 'does she love me?' what could she reply? And even if he did not ask this, if he deceived himself for the time, must he not sooner or later – too late, perhaps – discover that she did not love him? And would she, who for a fleeting fancy had not hesitated to destroy Johanna's happiness, could she sacredly guard Johann Leopold's happiness and honour?

"If I only knew what was right!" sighed Aunt Thekla. And it was only after long reflection that she found consolation in the conclusion that if it was the purpose of the Almighty that Johann Leopold and Magelone should be united, they would be so in spite of all misunderstandings, and without any help from an old woman.

While she was reflecting thus, Johann Leopold was standing at the open window of his room, and as he looked abroad over the dark masses of foliage of the park, and up to the shining stars whose rising and setting he had so often watched from this very window, there came over him for the first time that mighty feeling of home which at once absorbs and expands all individuality. His grandfather was suddenly more comprehensible to him than ever before, and the task to which the old man had devoted himself for half a century – the weal and welfare of Dönninghausen – appeared to him in a new light. For years Johann Leopold had longed for loftier aims and a wider sphere of activity. Debarred from much by his state of health, he had disdained what was within his reach. This should be so no longer! He would show his grandfather that he was the heir not only of his estates, but of his views and intentions.

A knock at the door aroused him from his revery, and upon his 'Come in,' Otto entered the room.

"Is it you?" Johann Leopold exclaimed, as he went to meet his late visitor, and he offered him his hand with some hesitation. Otto scarcely touched the tips of his fingers.

"Pardon my taking you by surprise at this unseasonable hour," he said, as he threw his hat and gloves upon the table and himself into a chair. "When our grandfather's message arrived I sent word that I was not at home; for" – and he pushed back the damp curls from his forehead and turned upon Johann Leopold a face that looked strangely pale and haggard in the lamp-light – "I could not possibly sit opposite you at table and pull an amiable face when – I am in a scrape again, and if you do not help me – But what good would it do? Better a terrible end than terror without end!"