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Only a Girl: or, A Physician for the Soul.

by Wilhelmine von Hillern · English · Gutenberg #36709 · 1,116,751 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Only a Girl: or, A Physician for the Soul.

Author: Wilhelmine von Hillern

Translator: A. L. Wister


        
Release date: July 11, 2011 [eBook #36709]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36709

Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONLY A GIRL: OR, A PHYSICIAN FOR THE SOUL. ***




Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive










Transcriber's Notes:

   1. Page scan source:
      http://www.archive.org/details/onlyagirlaroman00wistgoog

   2. This was published also in England under the title "Ernestine: A
      Novel", translated by S. Baring Gould.

   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].






                              ONLY A GIRL:

                                   OR

                       A PHYSICIAN FOR THE SOUL.



                               A ROMANCE

                            FROM THE GERMAN

                                   OF

                        WILHELMINE VON HILLERN.



                                   BY

                           MRS. A. L. WISTER.





                             PHILADELPHIA:
                         J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
                                 1871.





                           *   *   *   *   *

      Entered, according to act of Congress, In the year 1870, by
                        J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.,
    In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
               for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

                           *   *   *   *   *






                               CONTENTS.


   CHAPTER

      I. "Only a Girl"

     II. The Story of the Ugly Duckling

    III. Atonement

     IV. The Sad Survivors

      V. Undeceived

     VI. Soul-Murder

    VII. Departure


                                PART II.

      I. "Only a Woman"

     II. The Swan

    III. The Village School

     IV. The Guardian

      V. Fruitless Pretensions

     VI. Emancipation of the Flesh

    VII. Emancipation of the Spirit

   VIII. "When Women hold the Reins"

     IX. Vox Populi, Vox Dei

      X. Nowhere at Home

     XI. Inharmonious Contrasts


                               PART III.

      I. The Strength of Weakness

     II. The Weakness of Strength

    III. Silver-armed Kaethchen

     IV. Battle

      V. Science and Faith

     VI. Sentenced

    VII. The Orphan

   VIII. Blossoms on the Border of the Grave

     IX. It is Morning again

      X. Return

     XI. "Give us this Day Our Daily Bread"

    XII. The Third Power






                              ONLY A GIRL;

                                   OR

                       A PHYSICIAN FOR THE SOUL.




                               CHAPTER I.

                             "ONLY A GIRL."


In a level, well-wooded country in Northern Germany, not far from an
insignificant village, stood a distillery, such as is frequently to be
found upon the estates of the North German nobility, and in connection
with it an extensive manufactory,--the estate comprising, besides, a
kitchen-garden overgrown with weeds, a few fruit-trees overshadowing
the decaying remains of rustic seats long fallen to ruin, and a
dwelling-house, well built, indeed, but as neglected and dirty as its
guardian the lean, hungry mastiff, whose empty plate and dusty jug
testified to the length of time since the poor creature had had any
refreshment in the oppressive heat of this July day. No one who looked
upon this picture could doubt that the interior of the house must
correspond with its cheerless outside, and that the gentle, beneficent
hand was wanting there that keeps a house neat and orderly, cares for
the garden, and attends to the wants of even a dumb brute. Where such a
hand is wanting, there is neither order nor culture, no love of the
beautiful, nor sometimes even of the good,--too often, indeed, no joy,
no happiness. There was no one in the court-yard or garden; nothing was
stirring but a couple of cheeping chickens that were peeping around the
corner of the dog's kennel, in hopes of stray crumbs from his last
meal. They came on cautiously, their little heads turning curiously
from side to side, in fear lest the dog should make his appearance; but
he kept in his kennel, his head resting upon his paws, and his
bloodshot eyes blinking over the distant landscape. The hungry fowls,
grown bolder, pecked and scratched around his plate, but vainly: there
was nothing to be found but dry sand.

Beside the well stood a churn, and a bench upon which lay a roll of
fresh butter, which, neglected and forgotten, was melting beneath the
sun's hot rays, and dripping down upon the weeds around. Perhaps the
starving dog was suddenly struck by the thought how grateful this waste
would be to him were it only within his domain; for he started up and
ran out as far as he could from his kennel, dragging his rattling chain
behind him, as if to prove its length, then stood still, and finally
bethought himself and crept back with drooping head beneath his roof.
Outside of a window, upon the ground floor, stood a couple of dried
cactus-plants, and several bottles of distilled herbs; the cork of one
of them was gone, and its contents filled with flies and beetles.
Everything, far and near, betrayed neglect and dirt; but the excuse of
poverty was evidently wanting. The extensive stables and accommodations
for cattle, the huge out-houses and far-stretching fields of grain
testified to the wealth of the proprietor of the estate. A comfortable
rolling-chair standing in the court-yard, its leathern cushions rotting
in the sun, seemed to indicate the presence of an invalid or a cripple.
Only the lowest and uppermost stories of the house appeared to be
inhabited; the windows of the middle floor were all closed, and so
thickly festooned with cobwebs that they could not have been opened for
a long time. It seemed as if the swallows wee the only creatures who
could find comfort in such an inhospitable mansion; their nests were
everywhere to be seen. The chickens looked enviously up at them, and
hopped upon the low window-ledges of the lower story, as if to remind
the inmates of their existence and necessities. Suddenly they fluttered
down to the ground again, for from one of the open windows there came a
child's scream, so piteous and shrill that the large dog pricked his
ears and once more restlessly measured the length of his chain.

In a low room, the atmosphere of which was almost stifling from the
heat of an ironing-stove and the steam from dampened linen, that two
robust maid-servants were engaged in ironing, a little girl, about
twelve years of age, was standing before an old wardrobe. She was half
undressed, and the garments falling off her shoulders disclosed a
little body so wasted and delicate that at sight of it a mother's eyes
would have filled with tears. But there was no mother near, only an old
housekeeper, whose bony fingers had apparently just been laid violently
upon the child, who was crying aloud and covering one thin shoulder
with her hand, while she refused to put on a dress that the woman was
holding towards her.

"What is the matter now?" an angry voice called from the adjoining
room. The child started in alarm. The old woman went to the door, and
replied, "Ernestine is so naughty again that there is no doing anything
with her. She has torn her best dress, because she says she has
outgrown it, and it hurts her; but it isn't true: it fits her very
well."

"How can the miserable creature have outgrown any dress?" rejoined the
rough voice from within. "Put it on this moment, and go!"

The child leaned against the wardrobe, and looked obstinate and
defiant.

"She won't do it, sir; she does not want to go to the children's
party!" said the unfeeling attendant.

"I ordered you to go," cried the father. "When a lady like the Frau
Staatsraethin does you the honour to invite you, you are to accept her
invitation gratefully. I will not have it said that I make a Cinderella
of my daughter!"

Little Ernestine made no reply, but looked at the housekeeper with such
an expression in her large, sunken eyes, that the woman was transported
with rage; it seemed scarcely possible that so much contempt and hate
should find place in the bosom of a child. The housekeeper clasped her
hands. "No, you bad, naughty child! You ought to see how she is looking
at me now, Herr von Hartwich!"

With these words she tried again to throw the dress over Ernestine's
head; but the girl tore it away, threw it on the ground and trampled
upon it, crying in a transport of rage, interrupted by bursts of tears,
"I will not put it on, and I will not go among strangers! I will not be
treated so! You are a bad, wicked woman! I will not mind you!"

"Oh, goodness gracious! was ever such a naughty child seen!" exclaimed
the housekeeper, looking with a secret sensation of fear at the little
fury who stood before her with dishevelled hair and heaving chest.

"When are you going to stop that noise out there?" roared the father.
"Must I, wretched man that I am, hear nothing, all day long, but
children's and servants' squabbles? Ernestine, come in here to me!"

At this command, the little girl began to tremble violently; she knew
what was in store for her, and moved slowly towards the door. "Are you
coming?" called the invalid.

Ernestine entered the room, and stood as far as possible from the bed
where he was lying. "Now, come here!" he cried, beckoning her towards
him with his right hand,--his left was crippled,--and continuing, as
Ernestine hesitated: "You good-for-nothing, obstinate child! you have
never caused a throb of pleasure to any one since you came into the
world; not even to your mother, for your birth cost her her life. In
you God has heaped upon me all the sorrows but none of the joys that a
son might afford his father; you have the waywardness and self-will of
a boy, with the frail, puny body of a girl! What is to be done with
such a wretched creature, that can do nothing but scream and cry?"

At these words the child burst into a fresh flood of tears, and was
hurrying out, when she was recalled by a thundering "Stop! you have not
had your punishment yet!"

Ernestine knew then what was coming, and begged hard. "Do not strike
me, father! Oh, do not strike me again!" But her entreaties were of no
avail.

With lips tightly compressed, and her little hands convulsively clasped
together, she approached the bed. The sick man raised his broad hard
hand, and a heavy blow fell upon the transparent cheek of the child,
who staggered and fell on the floor. "Now will you obey, or have you
not had enough yet?" the father asked.

"I will obey," sobbed the little girl, as she rose from the floor.

"But first ask Frau Gedike's pardon!" ordered the angry man.

"No!" cried Ernestine firmly. "That I will not do!"

"How! is your obstinacy not yet conquered? Disobey at your peril!"

"Though you should kill me, I will not do it," answered the child, with
a strange gleam in her eyes, as her father, endeavouring to raise
himself in his bed, stretched put his hand towards her.

"Oh, fie! are you crazy?" suddenly said a melodious voice, just behind
Ernestine. "Is that the way for a man of sense to reason with a naughty
child,--playing lion-tamer with a sick kitten!"

Then the speaker turned to the little girl and said kindly, "Go, my
child, and be dressed; you will enjoy yourself with all those pretty
little girls."

Ernestine's long black eyelashes fell, and she obeyed silently.

The strange intercessor for the tormented child was a tall, slender,
almost handsome man, with delicate features and a certain air of repose
which might rather be called impassibility, but which was so refined in
its expression that it could not but produce a favourable impression.
His tone of voice was soft, melodious, and grave; his pronunciation
faultlessly pure. An atmosphere of culture which seemed to surround him
gave him an air of superiority. His dress was simple, but in good
taste, his step light, his manner and bearing supple and insinuating.
It would have struck the common observer as condescending, but the
closer student of human nature would have found it ironical and
treacherous.

In moments of passion such human reptiles exercise a soothing influence
upon heated minds, and check their violent outbreaks, as ice-bandages
will arrest a flow of blood. Upon his entrance the invalid became
quiet, almost submissive; the room seemed to him suddenly to become
cooler; he was, he thought, conscious of a pleasant draught of air as
the tall figure approached the bed and sank into the arm-chair beside
his pillow.

"It would be no wonder if I did become crazy!" Herr von Hartwich
excused himself. "The child exasperates me. When a man suffers tortures
for months at a time, and is crippled and confined to bed, how can he
help being irritable? He cannot be as patient as a man in full health,
who can get out of the way of such provoking scenes whenever he
pleases!"

"You could easily do that if you chose, by keeping the child in the
rooms above, which have been empty for years. Then you might be quiet,
and people would not be able to say that the rich Hartwich's delicate
child had to sit in the ironing-room in such hot weather,--it is worse
than unjust; I think it unwise!"

"What!" Hartwich suddenly interrupted him, "shall I leave the child and
the servants to their own devices above-stairs, whilst I lie here alone
and neglected? Or shall I hire an expensive nurse, and make every one
think I am dying, and let the factory-hands suppose themselves without
a master?"

"That last cannot happen, for they long ago ceased to regard you as
their master; they know that I am the ruling spirit of the whole
business. As for your talk about the expense of a nurse, such folly can
only be explained on the score of your incredibly avarice, which has
become a mania with you of late. For whom are you hoarding your wealth?
Not for your child; you will leave her no more than what the law
compels you to leave her; still less for me, for you have always been a
genuine step-brother, and have bequeathed me your property only because
I would not communicate to you the secrets of my discoveries without
remuneration; and you would rather give away all your wealth at your
death than any part of it during your lifetime. And I assure you that
if I am to be your heir, which perhaps may never be, I would far rather
go without a few thousand thalers than witness such outrageous neglect
of a child's education!"

The invalid listened earnestly. "You are talking very frankly to me
to-day, and are, it seems to me, reckoning very confidently upon my not
altering my last will and testament," he said, in an irritated tone of
menace.

Without a change of feature, the other continued: "With all your faults
and eccentricities, you are too upright in character to punish my
candour in the way at which you hint. You know well that I mean kindly
by you, and that I am an honest man. I might have required large sums
of money from you. Upon the strength of the increase of income accruing
from my exertions, I might have insisted upon your constituting me your
partner, and much else besides; but I have contented myself with the
modest position of superintendent, and with the certainty that by your
will (God grant you length of days!) a brilliant future may be prepared
for my child when I am no more. These proofs of disinterestedness, I
think, give me a right to speak frankly to you!"

"What is all this circumlocution to lead to?" asked Hartwich, who had
grown strikingly languid, while his speech was becoming thick. "Be
quick, for I am sleepy."

"Simply to this,--that you either remove Ernestine to the upper story,
or, what would be better still, away from the house."

"Away from the house! Where to?"

"Why, to some institution where she may be so educated that it need be
no disgrace hereafter to have to own her as a relative. The child will
be ruined with no society but that of servant-maids, grooms, and
village children."

"Bah!" growled the invalid, "what does it matter?"

"If you are indifferent as to what becomes of your daughter, I am by no
means indifferent as to my niece, or as to the influence that, if she
lives, she may exercise upon my own daughter. As Ernestine now is, the
thought that in a year or two she may be my child's playmate gives me
great anxiety. Should she remain here, I must send my little girl from
home, or she will be ruined also. But, setting all this aside, I wish
her sent away for your sake. You cannot control yourself towards the
obstinate, neglected child; and, as long as she is with you, such
scenes as have just occurred are unavoidable. And I have learned to-day
that the whole village resounds with your 'cruel treatment' of your own
child. This throws rather a bad light upon your character, just when
you wish our new neighbours to think well of you."

"That's all nonsense; if they think the factory worth fifty thousand
thalers, they'll buy it, whether they think me a rogue or an honest
man," said Hartwich.

"Think the factory worth--yes, that's just it," the silken-smooth man
continued; "but that they may think it worth so much, much may be
necessary,--among other things, some degree of confidence in the
present proprietor."

"And you have the sale very near at heart, because you would far rather
put the fifteen thousand thalers profit, that I have insured to you,
into your pocket than win your bread by honest labour," said the
invalid with sarcasm. "'Tis a fine gift for me to throw into your lap!"

"A gift?" his brother asked--"an indemnification for the loss of income
that the sale of the factory will occasion me, and without which
indemnification I shall certainly prevent any such sale. You are always
representing our business transactions as generous on your part. I
require no generosity at your hands. You pay me for my services: I
serve you because you pay me. Why pretend to a feeling that would be
unnatural between us?--we are step-brothers; it would be preposterous
sentimentality to try to love each other."

"Most certainly you take no pains to attach me to you," the invalid
remarked.

"Why should I?" his brother replied with a smile. "There must be some
reason for everything in the world--there would be none in that. You
would not give me a farthing for my amiability; whatever I get from you
must be earned by services very different from brotherly affection."

"You are a downright fiend, that no man, made of flesh and blood, could
possibly love! You always were so from a child: how you tormented my
poor mother! You know nothing of human feeling. In the warmest weather
your hands are always damp and cold, and your heart, too, is never
warm. I am cross and irritable, but I am not as utterly heartless as
you are, God forbid! You are one of those beings at discord with all
natural laws, who cast no shadow in the sunshine." The sick man closed
his eyes, exhausted, and large drops of moisture stood upon his brow.

His brother took a handkerchief and carefully wiped them away. "Only
see how you excite yourself, and all for nothing!" he said in the
gentlest, kindliest voice. "Because I have no sympathy with fictitious
sentiment and exaggerated outbursts, you call me unfeeling. Because I
am quiet by nature, not easily aroused, you picture me in your feverish
dreams as a vampire. I will leave you now, or I shall excite you. Lay
to heart what I have said about the child; for if the present course is
persevered in, it will bring disgrace upon us, and that would be to me
unendurable!"

Hartwich made no reply; he had turned his face to the wall, and did not
look around until his brother had noiselessly left the room.

During this conversation little Ernestine had allowed her dress to be
put on. When this was done, the housekeeper left the room, and the
child busied herself with lacing upon her feet an old pair of boots
that were really too small for her.

"That's right, Ernestine," one of the maid-servants whispered. "Frau
Gedike is a bad woman: none of us can bear her--it is good for her to
be vexed, and we are glad of it!"

"I do not want to vex her, but I hate her--and my father, too--he is
cruel to me," said the child, with the bitterness with which a
defenceless human being, when ill used, seeks to revenge itself.

"Indeed he is a dreadful father," Rieka, the elder of the maids,
whispered softly to her companion, but Ernestine heard all that she
said perfectly well. "He always wanted a son, and talked forever of
what he would do for his boy when he had one. And when the child was
born, and was not a boy after all, he was quite beside himself, and
cried furiously, 'Only a girl! only a girl!' and rushed out of the
house, banging the door after him so that the whole house shook. The
young mother--she was a delicate lady--fell into convulsions with
sorrow and fright, and took the fever, and died on the third day. Then
he was sorry enough, and raved and tore his hair over the corpse, but
he could not bring her to life again. He has been well punished since
he had his stroke, and perhaps it was to punish him that Ernestine has
grown so ugly; but he ought at least to show his repentance for what he
did, by kindness to the sickly little thing, instead of abusing her. It
isn't the child's fault that she's not a boy."

Ernestine listened to all this with a beating heart, and now slipped
out gently that the maid might not know she had overheard her. Outside
she stopped to stroke the dog, but the poor thirsty brute growled at
her. She saw that he had no water, and took his can to the well and
filled it. When she saw the water gushing so sparkling from the pipe,
she could not resist the temptation to let it run upon her burning
head.

"Ernestine, what mischief are you about now?" the housekeeper screamed
from the window; but the water was already dripping down from the
child's long hair upon her shoulders, breast, and back.

"The sun will dry it before I get to the Frau Staatsraethin's, she
thought, and carried the dog his drink; but when she attempted to pat
him, he growled again, because he did not wish to be disturbed while
drinking.

"Even the dog does not like me," she thought, and crept away. "Only a
girl! And my father is so cross to me because I am not a boy." And as
she went on she repeated the phrase to herself, and her step kept time
to it as to a tune, "Only a girl--only a girl!"


From the window of the upper story her uncle and his wife looked after
her. The wife presented an utter contrast to her husband. She was
uncommonly stout, and her jolly face was so flushed that if her husband
had really been a vampire she might have afforded him nourishment for a
long term of ghostly existence. But he was no such monster, although
his meagre body seemed to bask in his wife's warm fulness of life as
some puny, starving wretch does in the heat of a huge stove. Any more
poetical comparison is impossible in connection with Frau Leuthold;
for, in spite of her massive beauty, her thick bushy eyebrows, her
sparkling black eyes, her thick waves of dark hair, the whole
expression of her large face, with its double chin and pouting mouth,
was coarsely sensual. Yet there was something in this expression that
showed that, however great the dissimilarity between the husband and
wife in mind and body, there was still one thing in which they were
alike: it was the heart,--in his case ossified, in hers overgrown with
fat.

There are some persons whose mental organization can be excellently
well described by the medical term "fat-hearted." They are no longer
capable of any healthy moral activity, because an indolent sensuality
has taken possession of them, crippling their energies like fat
accumulating around the heart. Although the natures of husband and wife
were radically dissimilar, still in the results of their modes of
thought there was enough similarity to produce that sort of harmony
which is maintained between the receiver and the thief. The stout
brunette was a worthy accomplice of her slender, fair husband; and that
she possessed the art of sweetening existence for him after a fashion,
to which no one possessing nerves of taste and smell is altogether
insensible, a table, upon which were delicious fruits, biscuits, and a
bowl of iced sherbet, bore ample testimony. Thus the refined thinker
endured the narrowness and coarseness of his better half for the sake
of material qualifications, and of the ease with which she entered into
his projects for selfish aggrandizement. As a cook she possessed his
entire approbation, and the union between these utterly different
natures was universally considered a happy one.

"She's an ugly thing, that Ernestine," said the affectionate aunt,
looking after her pale little niece, who was walking slowly along with
drooping head. "Kind as I may be to her, she will have nothing to say
to me. They say dogs and children always know who likes them and who
does not; so I suppose the child knows I can't abide her."

"Whether you like her or not is not the question," replied her husband.
"You have not attached her to you, and that is a mistake; for it makes
us sharers in the common report of Hartwich's cruelty to the child. She
is considered in the village as the victim of unfeeling treatment. The
pastor thinks her a martyr, whose cause he is bound to adopt; the
schoolmaster talks about her clear head; and who can tell that all this
nonsense may not waken the conscience of my fool of a brother, and
induce him at the eleventh hour to make, Heaven only knows what changes
for her advantage! That would be a blow--such people easily fall from
one extreme into the other. Therefore the child must be separated from
him. If I cannot succeed in having her sent away, we must manage
somehow to attach her to us, and so stop people's mouths." An
involuntary sigh from his wife interrupted him. "I know it is
troublesome, up-hill work; but, Heaven willing, it cannot last long.
Hartwich is failing. He may live a year; but, if he should have another
stroke, he may go off at any moment; then, for all I care, you may
be rid of the disagreeable duty at once, and send Ernestine to
boarding-school. Still, appearances must be kept up, my dear. You know
how much I would sacrifice for the sake of my reputation. I cannot bear
a shabby dress or to dine off a soiled table-cloth; and just so I
cannot endure a stain upon my name."

While speaking, he had seated himself at the table and filled a goblet
of sherbet from the fragrant bowl. As he was sipping it delicately,
with his lips almost closed, his wife threw herself down upon the sofa
by his side with such clumsy violence that the springs creaked, and her
husband was so jolted that he lost his balance, and the contents of his
glass were spilled upon his immaculate shirt-front. Much annoyed, he
carefully dried his dripping garment with his napkin. "Now I shall have
to dress again," he said in a tone of vexation.

"To spill your glass over you just in the midst of such a conversation
as this means no good," said his superstitious wife.

"It means that you never will learn to conduct yourself like a lady,"
was the quiet reply.

"Indeed!" she cried with a laugh. "So I must learn aristocratic manners
that I may do more credit to your brother, who has drunk himself into
an apoplexy! A fine aristocrat he is!"

"Just because he disgraces his standing I will respect mine; and you
should assist me to do so, instead of laughing. And when his estate is
ours, I will show the world that it is not necessary to be born in an
aristocratic cradle in order to be an aristocrat. The dismissed Marburg
professor will yet play a part among the _elite_ of the scientific and
fashionable world that a prince might envy him. Wealth is all-powerful;
and where there is wealth with brains, men are caught like flies upon a
limed twig."

"Ah, how fine it will be!" cried his wife, excited by this view of the
subject; and she hastily filled a glass from the bowl and drank it
greedily.

"It is indeed such good fortune that a man less self-controlled than
myself might well-nigh lose his senses at the thought of it!" her
husband rejoined. And there was a dreamy look in his light-blue eyes.

"Then we can keep a carriage, and I shall drive out shopping, with
footmen to attend me, and Gretchen shall have a French bonne, and shall
be always dressed in white and sky-blue. We will live in the capital,
and you, Leuthold, need never do another day's work,--you can amuse
yourself in any way that pleases you."

And the wife tossed her head proudly, as though already lolling upon
the soft cushions of her carriage.

"Do you suppose I could ever be a robber of time?" he asked her with a
sharp glance. "No, most certainly not. If I had made the ten
commandments, the seventh should have been, 'Thou shalt not steal a day
from the Lord.' He who steals a day seems to me the most contemptible
of all thieves."

Ills wife laughed and displayed a double row of fine white teeth, whose
strength she was just proving by cracking hazel-nuts.

"Do you suppose," continued Leuthold, "that I should ever be content
with the reputation of a merely wealthy man? No; I long for other
honours. As soon as the means are in my power, I will resume my old
scientific labours, and will soon distance the miserable drudges who
daily lecture in our schools. I will have such a chemical and
physiological laboratory as few universities can boast. Ah! when I am
once free from all the hated servitude, the miserable toil day after
day, in that detestable factory, I will bathe in the clear, fresh
stream of science, and make a name for myself that shall rank among the
first of our time."

"Is that all the happiness you propose to yourself?" asked his wife
with a sneer.

"There is no greater happiness than to play a great part in the world
through one's own ability; and if my poverty has hitherto prevented my
doing so, my wealth, in making me independent, shall help me to my
goal. Make a man independent, and he has free play for the exercise of
his talents; while the hard necessity of earning his daily bread has
crushed many a budding genius before his powers were fully developed.
It is glorious to be able to work at what we love!--as glorious as it
is miserable to be forced to work at what we hate." He smoothed with
his hand his thin, glossy hair, and murmured with a sigh, "No wonder it
is growing gray; I wonder it is not snow-white, since for ten years
this miserable fate has been mine. It is enough to destroy the very
marrow in one's bones, and dry up the blood in the veins."

His wife stared at him with surprise. "Why, Leuthold, think what good
dinners I have always cooked for you!"

Leuthold looked up as if awakening from a dream, and then, with the
ironical expression which his unsuspicious fellow-men interpreted as
pure benevolence, he said, "You are right, Bertha! Your first principle
is 'eat and drink;' mine is 'think and work.' That yours is much the
more practical can be mathematically proved!" He glanced with a smile
at his wife's portly figure.

"Only wait until we are settled in the capital, and see what I will do
for you. Then you shall have dinners indeed!" said Bertha.

"Your skill will be needed, for we shall have plenty of guests. Men are
like dogs: they gather where there is a chance of a good dinner, and
the host is sure of many friends devoted to him through their palates.
'Tis true, such friends last only as long as the fine dinners last; we
can have them while we need them, and throw them overboard, like
useless ballast, when they can no longer serve our turn."

"Yes, you are right; what a knowing fellow you are!" cried Bertha.
"Heavens!" she added, clapping her hands with childlike naivete, "if he
would only die soon!"

Her husband looked at her sternly. "I trust that in case of the event,
which will be as welcome to me as to you, no human eye will be able to
discern anything but grief in your countenance. Should you be too
awkward to simulate sorrow, I must invent some method for making you
really feel it; for appearances must be preserved at all costs!
Remember that!"

Bertha clasped her hands in dismay. "Mercy on me! I really believe you
would do anything to torment me into seeming sorry. It would be just
like you; for what people say of you,--or 'appearances,' as you call
it, are dearer to you than wife or child, or anything else in the
world."

She sprang up, and her breath came quick and angrily. Leuthold
contemplated her with a kind of satisfaction as she stood before him
with flashing eyes and curling lip. She displayed some emotion,--only
the emotion of anger, 'tis true; but as enthusiasm is always
passionate, so passion will sometimes seem enthusiasm, and lend a kind
of nimbus to insignificance.

"I like to see you so!" said Leuthold, drawing her down beside him and
laying his cool hand upon her shoulder.

Just then the cry of a child was heard in the adjoining apartment.
"Gretchen is awake," cried Bertha, forgetting her anger, and leaving
the room so quickly that the boards creaked beneath her heavy tread,
and the sofa upon which her husband was seated shook. She soon
returned, with a pretty child of three years of age in her arms. After
tossing it, notwithstanding its size and strength, up and down like an
india-rubber ball, she threw it with maternal pride into her husband's
lap. He caressed the little thing tenderly, and a ray shot from his
eyes like the gleam of a wintry san across a snowy landscape. For,
though there was no genuine paternal love in his heart, there
was at least in its place,--what is hardly to be distinguished from
it,--fatherly pride.

"How strange to think," said the mother, "that that should be your
child!"

"Why?" asked Leuthold with surprise.

"It is so odd that such a slim, delicate-looking man as you are should
have such a healthy, chubby little daughter. It is just as if a
wheat-stalk should bear penny rolls instead of wheat-ears." She laughed
immoderately at the idea, without perceiving that her husband was far
from flattered by the comparison. "They say," she continued, "'long
waited for is good at last,' and we waited long for the little thing,
and she is good." And she put up the child's plump little hand to her
mouth as though she would bite it. The little girl shouted with glee,
and the sound so sweet to maternal ears did not fail to awaken a
return. Bertha shouted too, until her husband's ears tingled. "If
Ernestine had only been a boy, she could have married Gretchen, and our
child would have been all provided for," she said, after a pause.

"Do not talk such nonsense," said Leuthold. "Hartwich would have loved
a son as thoroughly as he detests his daughter, and would have
bequeathed to him all his property. We owe our inheritance there to the
happy chance that made his child a girl. But even supposing that she
were a boy, with the inheritance still ours, do you think I would mate
her so unworthily? No! our Gretchen, lovely and rich as she will be,
can never marry a simple Herr von Hartwich. She will one day make me
father-in-law to some great statesman, some illustrious scholar, or, at
least, to some count!"

"And me mother to a countess!" cried his wife with glee.




                              CHAPTER II.

                    THE STORY OF THE UGLY DUCKLING.


In the mean time Ernestine had pursued her way. She walked slowly on
through the extensive fields in the glare of the four-o'clock sun,
whose rays were broken by no friendly tree or shrub. The waist of the
dress which she had outgrown was so tight that she was frequently
obliged to stand still and recover her breath. The perspiration rolled
down her poor worn little face. The sunbeams felt like dagger-points
upon her weary head; but she could not go back: fear of her father was
more powerful than the torments she was enduring. Better to be pierced
by the sun's rays than struck by her father's hard hand. Still, she
could not help weeping bitterly that every one seemed so unkind to her.
What had she done, that her father should hate her so? It was not her
fault that she was so ugly and not a boy. "Ah, why am I a girl?" she
sobbed, and sat down upon the hard, sun-baked clods of earth among the
brown, dried potato-plants. She clasped her knees with her arms, and
pondered why boys were better than girls, wondering whether she could
not learn to do all that boys could. The schoolmaster had often told
her that she had more sense and learned her lessons better than the
boys. What was it that she needed, then? Strength, boldness, courage!
Yes, that was a good deal, to be sure; but could she not make them hers
in time? She thought and thought. She would exercise her strength. She
had once read of a man who carried a calf about in his arms daily, and
was so accustomed to his burden that he never noticed how the calf
increased in size and weight, until at last he bore a huge ox in his
arms. She would do so too; she would accustom herself at first to the
weight of little burdens, and go on increasing them until at last she
could carry the very heaviest. And she could be bold too, if she only
dared, and if her shyness would only wear off. Then, she hoped, her
father would be quite content with her. She sprang to her feet
comforted and walked on. Her mind was made up. She would be just like a
boy.

At the end of an hour Ernestine reached a beautiful and extensive
grove, through which she passed, and entered a garden, at the end of
which stood a charming country-house. Upon the wide lawn in front, a
merry throng of children were running and leaping hither and thither,
and from the fresh green a sparkling fountain tossed into the air a
crystal ball. At the open doors of a room leading out into the garden
sat a company of elegantly-dressed ladies and gentlemen, and servants
in rich liveries were handing around refreshments upon silver salvers.
Ernestine stood as if dazzled by all this pomp and splendour. She dared
not approach. How could she? To whom could she turn? No one came
towards her; no one spoke to her. Her embarrassment was indescribable,
when suddenly the beautiful, gaily-dressed children on the lawn broke
off their play and looked towards her with astonishment. Ernestine saw
how the little girls nudged each other and pointed at her. She
distinctly heard some say to the others, "What does she want?" She was
almost on the point of turning round to run away, when she was observed
by the group of ladies and gentlemen, and a servant was dispatched to
ask whom she was looking for. Everything swam before her eyes as the
tall man with such a distinguished air stepped up to her and asked
sharply, "What do you want here?"

"Nothing," replied Ernestine; "I would not have come if I had known!"

"Who are you, then?" asked the servant

"I am Ernestine Hartwich."

"Ah, indeed!" he said, with a slight bow; "that's another affair; you
are invited. Permit me." With these words he conducted the passive
child to the ladies, and announced, "Fraeulein von Hartwich!"

The looks that were now fastened upon Ernestine were more piercing and
burning, she thought, than the sun's rays. Those people never dreamed
that the quiet little creature standing before them was possessed of a
goal so delicate in its organization, so finely strung, that every
breath of contempt that swept across it created a shrill discord, a
painful confusion; they only looked with the careless disapproval,
which would have been all very well with ordinary children, at the
straight, black, dishevelled hair, the sunken cheeks, the wizened,
sharp features of the pale face, the deep dark eyes, with their shy,
uncertain glances, the lips tightly closed in embarrassment, and last,
the emaciated figure in its faded short dress, and the long, narrow
feet and hands. In the minds of most, an ugly exterior excites more
disgust than sympathy; and, to excuse this feeling to one's self, one
is apt to declare that the child or person in question has an
"unpleasant expression," thus hinting at moral responsibility in the
matter of the exterior, as if it were the result of an ugliness of soul
which would, in a measure, excuse one's disgust. This was the case with
all who were now looking at this strange child. It seemed as though
they were drinking in with their eyes the poison that had wasted
Ernestine's little body,--the poison of hatred which her being had
imbibed from her father and her unnatural surroundings, and as if this
poison reacted from them upon herself. The little girl felt this
instinctively without comprehending it, and as she met, one after
another, those loveless glances, it was as though a wound in her flesh
were ruthlessly probed. She could not understand what the ladies
whispered to each other in French, but their tones intimated
displeasure and contempt. She suddenly saw herself as in a mirror
through their eyes, and she saw, what she had never seen before, that
she was very ugly and awkward,--that she was meanly dressed; and shame
for her poor innocent self flushed her cheeks crimson. In that single
minute she ate of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and
evil,--that fruit which has driven thousands, sooner or later, from the
Eden of childlike unconsciousness. She had entered upon that stage
of life where a human being is self-accused for being unloved,
unsought,--despises herself because others despise her,--finds herself
ugly because she gives pleasure to none. Hitherto, whatever she had
suffered, she had been at peace with herself; now she was at enmity
with herself and the world. She felt suffocated; everything swam before
her sight, and hot tears gushed from her eyes. Just then a tall,
stately woman came out of the drawing-room. "Frau Staatsraethin," one of
the ladies called to her in a tone of contempt, "a new guest has
arrived!"

"Is that little Ernestine Hartwich?" asked the hostess, evidently
endeavouring to conceal behind a kindly tone and manner her amazement
at the child's appearance. She held out her hand: "Good day, my child;
I am glad you have come. Will you not take some refreshment? You seem
heated. You have not walked all the way? Yes? Oh, that is too much in
such hot weather! Such a delicate child!" she said with a look of
sympathy. She sprinkled sugar over some strawberries and placed
Ernestine on a seat where she could eat them, but the rest all stared
at her so she could not move a finger; she could scarcely hold the
plate. How could she eat while all these people were looking on? She
trembled so that she could not carry the spoon to her lips.

She choked down the rising tears as well as she could, for she was
ashamed to cry, and said softly, "I would like to go home!"

"To go home?" cried the Staatsraethin. "Oh, no, my child; you have had
no time to rest, and you are so tired! Come, my dear little girl, I
will take you to a cool room, where you can take a little nap before
you play with the other children." She took Ernestine by the hand and
led her into the house and through several elegant rooms to a smaller
apartment, with half-closed shutters and green damask furniture and
hangings, where it was as quiet, fresh, and cool as in a grove. The air
was fragrant, too; for there was a basket of magnificent roses upon the
table.

Ernestine was speechless with admiration at all the beauty around her
here. She had never seen such a beautiful room in her life, never
breathed within-doors so pure an atmosphere. The Staatsraethin told her
to lie down upon a green damask couch, which she hesitated to do, until
at last she took off her dusty boots, heedless that she thereby exposed
stockings full of holes, and when the Staatsraethin, with a kindly "Take
a good nap, my child," left her, and she was alone, a flood of novel
sensations overpowered her. The pain of the last few moments, gratitude
for the kindness of the Staatsraethin, the enchantment that wealth and
splendour cast around, every childish imagination,--all combined to
confuse her thoughts. But the solitude of the cool room soon had a
soothing effect upon her. The green twilight was good for her eyes,
weary with weeping and the glare of the sun; she felt so far away from
those mocking, prying glances; everything was so calm and quiet here
that she seemed to hear the flowing of her own blood through her veins.
She thought of the ironing-room and her father's gloomy chamber at
home. What a difference there was! Oh, if she could only stay here
forever! How can people ever be unkind who have such a lovely home! How
can they laugh at a poor child who has nothing of all this!

But the Frau Staatsraethin, whose room this was, was kind. Ah, how kind!
Yet so different from every one at home--so--what? So distinguished!
Yes, every one at home seemed common compared with her, and Ernestine
herself was common, although the lady had not treated her as if she
were; she felt it herself; and was ashamed. What if the lady could have
seen how naughty she had been to-day, how she had torn off her dress
and stamped upon it, and scolded Frau Gedike?

She blushed at these thoughts, and resolved never again to conduct
herself so that she should be ashamed to have the Frau Staatsraethin see
her. A new sense was suddenly awakened in the child; but it fluttered
hither and thither like a timid bird, terrified by her late
surroundings, and not yet accustomed to all that was so novel about
her.

The child never dreamed of the innate refinement that distinguished her
from thousands of ordinary children; she was only crushed as she
compared herself with the gentle lady and the gaily-dressed children
upon the lawn; and this very feeling of shame, this disgust at herself,
was a proof how foreign to her youthful mind was the absence of beauty
in her exterior. In the midst of all these new, confusing thoughts,
sleep overpowered her; she stretched herself out comfortably upon the
soft couch. The beating of her heart, the painful pressure upon her
brain, and the singing in her ears, grew fainter and weaker, and
soothed her to slumber like a cradle-song.

On the lawn, in the mean time, nothing was talked of but the child, and
her family. It was thought inconceivable that a Freiherr von Hartwich
should allow his daughter to be so neglected. But then he had never
been a genuine aristocrat; for his mother was of low extraction, as was
proved by her return to her own rank of life after the death of her
husband Von Hartwich. She soon after married the widower Gleissert,
thus giving her son a master-manufacturer for a father, then purchased
her husband's heavily encumbered factory, which she had bequeathed to
her son with the condition that he should continue to keep it up,--a
condition most distasteful to the heir. Gleissert had a son by his
first marriage, named Leuthold, who had studied, but had not been much
of a credit to his brother, with whom he was living at present.

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of an elderly
gentleman, who drove up in a very elegant but very dusty carriage. The
number of orders upon his breast testified to his high position, and
the haste with which the hostess went forward to receive him, and the
trembling of the hand which she extended towards him, showed of what
importance his arrival was to her.

"Vivat!" he cried out to her. "Your Johannes takes the first rank--a
splendid examination--there has not been such another for ten years!"

"Thank God!" said the Staatsraethin, with a long sigh of relief.

"Yes, yes!" the kindly voice continued. "A superb fellow! I
congratulate you upon such a son--not a question missed--not one! And
answered with such ease and confidence, yet without the slightest
particle of conceit. Deuce take it!--I wish I had married and had such
a son. Come," he said, turning to a boy of about fourteen years
of age, who had arrived with him, "perhaps you may one day be such
another,--keep your eyes steadily upon Johannes. Permit me, dear madam,
to present to you the son of my late friend, Ferdinand Hilsborn. He
lost his mother a few months ago, and is now my adopted son."

The Staatsraethin held out her hand to the boy, and said with emotion,
"Although I never knew your mother, it pains me deeply to know that she
left this world before she could enjoy such a moment as your adopted
father has just given me by his tidings."

The gentle boy's eyes filled with tears as she spoke.

"Only think, my dear friends," said the Staatsraethin, turning to the
company, "Johannes never told me that this was his examination-day,
that he might surprise me. I only learned it this afternoon from a few
thoughtless words of my brother's. Our kind Geheimrath Heim has just
brought me the tidings of his promotion."

The guests, with sympathy and congratulations, crowded around the proud
mother, whose heart was too full to do anything but reply mechanically
to their kind speeches.

"But, dear Frau Moellner," a Frau Landraethin remarked maliciously, "was
it not a little strange that your Johannes should not have told you of
his examination-day?--certainly a mother has a sacred right to share
such hours with her son."

"When a mother's claims are held as sacred as are mine by my son,"
replied the Staatsraethin, with dignified composure, "he may well be
left to do as seems to him best in such a matter. He wished to spare me
hours of anxiety; and I thank him."

"The woman is blindly devoted to her son," the Landraethin whispered to
a friend.

"She is growing perfectly childish with maternal vanity," remarked
another.

"But how can any one as wealthy as the Staatsraethin allow her son to
study?" said the Landraethin.

"Yes, yes!" several others joined in, "he certainly need never earn his
living in such a way. Why did she not buy him a commission? 'Tis too
bad for such a handsome young man!"

"Yes, yes!" the old Geheimrath called out to the ladies, as if he had
heard only their last words, "Johannes is a man,--a man, although
hardly twenty years old! Only such a mother could have such a son!" And
he laid his hand kindly upon the Staatsraethin's arm.

"I wish every woman, left alone in the world, had such a friend as you
are," she said, holding out her hand to him gratefully. "You are the
best legacy left me by my dear husband. But where is Johannes? Why did
he not come with you?"

"He sent me before to announce his arrival in the evening," replied the
old gentleman. "He was obliged to make a few visits this afternoon.
Ah," he sighed, as the Staatsraethin handed him some refreshments, "it
is a hot journey hither from town,--and a tedious one too,--but it is
all the cooler and more delightful when you get here." He wiped his
forehead and looked around the circle with the kindly, penetrating
glance of a man who sees through the weaknesses of his fellow-men, but
judges them with the gentleness of a superior nature. "Well, ladies,"
he asked good-humouredly, "did the old doctor interrupt a most
interesting conversation? I cannot believe that sitting here so silent
and serious is your normal condition. What were you talking of when I
arrived?"

"Of nothing very pleasant, Herr Geheimrath," said the Landraethin
venomously; "we were only speaking of Herr von Hartwich and of his
brother, who went wrong some years ago,--we don't know exactly how."

"I can tell you all about it, ladies," said the Geheimrath.

All instantly entreated him, "Oh, tell us; pray tell us!"

The Geheimrath began: "I was professor of medicine at Marburg when that
strange occurrence took place. It was about ten years ago. Gleissert
was then Extraordinarius in the university, and a young man of great
ability. By his diligence and insinuating manners, he had won for
himself the good-will of every one; and one of my colleagues, Hilsborn,
the father of the boy whom I brought with me to-day, was his intimate
friend. Their _specialite_ was the same, and Hilsborn filled the
professorial chair which was the object of Gleissert's desire. Both
were physiologists, but Hilsborn had the chair of special physiology,
and Gleissert, as Extraordinarius, was occupied only with physiological
chemistry. One day Hilsborn confided to me that he was upon the track
of a new discovery. It would be of great importance to science if he
could only succeed in carrying it out and establishing it upon a firm
foundation. The difficulty in doing so lay principally in the procuring
of the necessary material for his experiments,--a species of fish found
only at Trieste, and which he could not procure alive. Hilsborn, a poor
widow's son, lamented his want of means to travel thither and prove his
hypothesis. I promised to obtain for him from my friend the minister,
by the next vacation, a sufficient sum to meet his expenses, and I did
so; but there was the same delay in the matter that is usual in such
cases, and the necessary sum came so late that the journey had to be
postponed until the following vacation, Hilsborn comforting himself
with the thought that, although he must wait another six months,
nothing but time would be lost. Suddenly Herr Gleissert married the
daughter of a wealthy innkeeper, and begged for leave of absence for
his wedding-trip. It was granted, and he was absent for four weeks.
Strangely enough, his friend never heard from him during all that time;
and, when he returned, we all noticed that he was unwilling to let us
know where he had been. We thought he had private grounds for such
unwillingness, and did not question him further. The term was over at
last, and Hilsborn set off for Trieste. There he worked night and day
with superhuman diligence. The result of his investigations was
perfectly satisfactory, and he came back with the materials for a work
which was sure to establish his fame and fortune. One day--I shall
never forget it--he was in my room when the publisher sent me several
new scientific papers. Hilsborn was looking through them carelessly,
when suddenly he grew ashy pale. Among the pamphlets was one by
Gleissert, embodying Hilsborn's idea. I was as shocked and astounded as
he was. It could not be chance which led two men at the same time to so
novel an idea, especially as Gleissert's course of study could not have
directed him to such investigations as Hilsborn's. After a long and
evident struggle with himself, Hilsborn confessed to me that he had
communicated his ideas to Gleissert, and had frequently from the
beginning discussed the matter thoroughly with him, without Gleissert's
ever hinting even that the subject had occurred to him before. On the
contrary, he was at work upon a paper upon a chemical subject, a paper
which had never appeared. Difficult as it was for my high-minded friend
to bring himself to it, the conviction was unavoidable that his friend
had basely deceived him; for we discovered, upon close inquiry, that
Gleissert's wedding-trip had been to Trieste, where he had pursued the
investigations proposed by Hilsborn, and hurried on the printing of
their results with the greatest haste. All outside proof of his
contemptible treachery was perfect, and we were all morally convinced
that he had _stolen_ Hilsborn's idea. As pro-rector, I called him to a
strict account. His defence was cunning, but not convincing. He did not
attempt to deny the principal accusation brought forward, namely, the
suspicious fact that he had induced Hilsborn to promise him not to
impart his discovery to any one else, 'lest it should be used to his
disadvantage.' He wished to be the sole depositary of the secret, that
there might be no witnesses to Hilsborn's proprietorship of the stolen
idea. I ask this worthy assemblage," the old gentleman here interrupted
himself with indignation, "if there can be any doubt of the baseness of
the man in the matter?"

"No, most certainly not, Herr Geheimrath, most certainly not," was the
unanimous reply.

"Well," the narrator continued, "so we thought. We, one and all,
determined to avenge poor Hilsborn, thus deprived of all his fair
hopes. It is true we had no legal weapon at our disposal. Our stupid
laws punish forgers and counterfeiters, but they cannot recognize the
theft of the coinage of the brain. There are jails for the hungry
beggar who steals a loaf; but the rogue who robs a man of his thought,
the painfully-begotten fruit of his mind after years of labour, goes
free. We professors undertook to do what the law does not. We published
the matter far and wide in the scientific periodicals, and all handed
in our resignations to the government, stating that we held it
inconsistent with our honour to remain the colleagues of such a man. Of
course Gleissert was instantly dismissed in disgrace, and an academic
career closed to him forever. I was called away from Marburg soon
after; and, since I have lived in the capital as royal physician, I
have lost sight of my former colleagues. Hilsborn died after some
years, and his son is now my adopted child. What became of Gleissert I
do not know."

"I can tell you," said a fine-looking man, whose resemblance to the
Staatsraethin declared him her brother. "I have informed myself about
matters here, because I propose to purchase Hartwich's factories for my
son. According to the schoolmaster, the fellow is playing a double part
here also. It cannot be denied that under his guidance, and owing to
his chemical discoveries, the factories have doubled in value since his
arrival, for Hartwich is a very narrow-minded man, incapable, from his
wretched avarice, of venturing upon any important speculation; but the
way in which his brother contrives to be paid for his services is, to
say the least, striking. For five years he contented himself with the
salary of an overseer and free lodging--he bided his time. It came at
last. One day Herr von Hartwich had a paralytic stroke, and the
physicians declared that he had but few years to live. Gleissert made
use of this time of helplessness, and threatened to leave the factory
immediately and dispose of his discoveries elsewhere if Hartwich did
not appoint him his heir. Hartwich, who of course stood more in need of
him than ever, accepted his conditions, set aside that poor little girl
as far as the law would allow it, and made a will in Gleissert's
favour."

"He's a thorough scoundrel, that Gleissert,--a legacy-hunter, then,
besides. I should like to know what the fellow holds sacred?"

"Let us ask the child about him," cried one of the ladies.

"Yes, yes," joined in several others. "It would be so interesting.
Pray, dear Staatsraethin, bring the little girl here."

The Staatsraethin looked at her watch, and, finding that Ernestine had
slept nearly an hour, went to fetch her. She soon returned with her,
and again the child had to run the gauntlet of those piercing glances.
But her rest had refreshed her, and she was not so timid.

She heard the old Geheimrath whisper to his next neighbour, "How did
that stupid Hartwich ever come to have such a clever child? Look--what
a remarkable head. Pity the little thing is not a boy! something might
be made of her!"

His words struck to her very soul. Again she heard the same
phrase,--this time from a perfect stranger, "Pity she's not a boy!"

She straightened herself, as though she had suddenly grown an inch
taller, and looked up at the thoughtless speaker as if to say,
"Something shall be made of me!" Then she glanced wistfully at the
children who were playing ball; if she were only among them now, she
would show that she could be like a boy. The Landraethin took her hand
and said, "Well, my dear child, tell us something of your father. How
is he now?"

Ernestine seemed surprised at the question.--"I did not ask him."

The ladies looked significantly at each other.

"Have you not seen him to-day?"

"Yes," she answered briefly.

"Do you not love your father very dearly?" the Landraethin asked
further.

Ernestine paused, and then said quietly and firmly, "No!"

Her interrogator dropped the child's hand as if stung by an insect. "An
affectionate daughter!" she sneered, while the rest shook their heads.
"Whom do you love, then?--your uncle?"

"I love no one at home; but I like my uncle better than my father--he
never strikes me!" Ernestine answered.

"Like likes like, as it seems," one of the ladies observed; the rest
nodded assent, and all turned away from Ernestine.

"She is an unfortunate child," said the Staatsraethin; and arose to lead
her to the children. "Angelika, here is Ernestine von Hartwich," she
cried to her own little daughter, who was about nine years old; "take
good care of her,--remember you are hostess!"

The children, towards whom the Staatsraethin led her protege, scattered
like a flock of birds at the approach of a paper kite. Collecting then
in single groups, they whispered together, and stared at the stranger.
Ernestine found herself alone, avoided by all the gay crowd which she
had just so fervently admired. She played the part of a scarecrow, but
with the melancholy superiority that she was conscious that she was
one. She knew that she had scattered the gay circle, that she had
chased away the children, that they all avoided her; and again she felt
as if she should sink into the ground, her feeble limbs trembled
beneath the burden of derision and contempt that she was forced to
bear. The Staatsraethin cast a stern glance--which Ernestine noticed--at
little Angelika, and said, "Give your hand to your new friend!"

Two of the larger girls giggled, and Ernestine heard them whisper, "A
lovely friend!"

Angelika now approached Ernestine, and held out her soft little hand,
but instantly withdrew it, stood mute before her for a moment, looking
at the old brown straw hat that Ernestine held in her hand, then
ventured one look into her eyes, and nestled confused and shy against
her mother, who spoke seriously but kindly to the pretty child. She
spoke in French, and Angelika answered in the same language. Ernestine
was amazed. The little girl understood a strange tongue, and yet she
was smaller than herself! She, who wanted to be as clever as a boy, did
not even know as much as the little girl. And she had to endure their
speaking before her as if she were not present; there she stupidly
stood, well knowing that they were saying nothing good of her or they
would have said it in German. She was weighed down by a double
disgrace, that of her ignorance, and of knowing that they were speaking
of her as if she were not there.

"Frau Staatsraethin," she said in a quivering voice, "I will not stay
here; the children do not like me; I am too bad for them!" She turned
away, and would really have gone, but little Angelika's good heart
conquered.

She ran after her and held her fast: "No, no, dear Ernestine; you are
not too bad for us; you are only odd--different from the rest of us.
Come, we will play with you!"

Then the Staatsraethin took Angelika in her arms, and kissed her,
saying, "That's right; now you are my little Angelika again, my good
sweet child."

Ernestine looked on at this caress with amazement, and hot tears rose
to her eyes. No one had ever been so kind to her. What happiness it
must be to be so embraced and kissed! But it could never happen to her.
Why not? Why did no one love her? Angelika, too, was only a girl: why
was she not blamed for it? But she was so lovely, so beautiful; who
could help loving her? Then her heart gave a throb as though it had
been stabbed with a knife. "So beautiful," she repeated: "that is why
every one pets and fondles her. It is not only that I am a girl; I am
an ugly girl,--that is why no one loves me."

"Come," said Angelika. "Why do you look so? Come to the others." She
led her to the fountain, around which the little company had gathered
meanwhile. The children were amusing themselves with throwing stones at
the ball of glass which the water tossed up and down. No girl or boy
could hit it; the ball could only be struck while it was dancing on the
top of the spray, and always fell before it was reached. The children
laughed merrily at each other, and even the parents and grown people
were interested and drew near. Ernestine looked on after her usual
brooding fashion. She soon divined where the mistake lay. The stone was
longer in reaching its aim than the ball lingered in the air. She
quickly concluded that if a stone were aimed at the top of the fountain
while the ball was still below, the latter in ascending would strike
the stone. Hilsborn, the boy fourteen years old, had just declared that
he could not understand why they could not strike it. Ambition took
possession of her,--if she was ugly, she would show them that she was
clever,--if she was only a girl, she would show them that she had force
and skill. Involuntarily she looked across to the old Geheimrath, to
ascertain if he saw her, and, as this seemed to be the case, she
stooped down and hastily picked up a larger stone than the others, to
insure success,--took the attitude which she had often observed in the
village boys, and, with her feet planted firmly wide apart, swung her
arm round three times to take sure aim, and hurled the stone with all
her force towards the point in the air which the fountain reached in
its leaping. Fate was cruel enough to favour her; the stone met the
ascending ball, and so exactly that the latter was hurled out of the
column of water, and, flying over the heads of the nearest by-standers,
fell upon the head of a child, and the thin glass was shivered in
pieces. The child screamed, more from fright than pain,--a commotion
ensued,--the mother of the sufferer rushed towards her darling with
frantic gestures,--the "wound" was examined, embroidered handkerchiefs
were dipped in the basin of the fountain and bound around the head,
while like a dark cloud there hovered over the sympathetic crowd a fear
lest "some fragment of glass should have penetrated the skull."
Ernestine stood there like a culprit; she felt convicted of murder,
and when she heard from all sides, "What unfeminine conduct! How
savage and rude! How can they bring up the girl to be such a tom-boy?"
she was utterly confounded. She had been like a boy, and it was all
wrong,--what should she do to please people and make them like her a
little? Then the old Geheimrath approached her and unclasped the hands
which she was silently but convulsively wringing. "Be comforted, you
pale little girl,--there is no great harm done. In future you must
leave such exploits to boys." Then he left her and examined the wound,
and declared laughingly that he needed a microscope to see it. The
mothers of the party, however, showed all the more sympathy and anxiety
in the matter that they were chagrined that Ernestine had displayed
more skill than their own children.

Ernestine's delicate instinct surmised all this. She looked at the
buzzing throng of her enemies with aversion, as at a swarm of wasps
that she had disturbed. She listened to the noise that was made about
the slight accident with infinite bitterness, and thought how at home,
when her father's blows had bruised her, no one cared anything about
it. When a few days before she had fallen and cut her forehead, she had
had to wash it herself at the brook. And even the old gentleman had
said that she should leave such exploits to boys. Then must she not
contend even with boys if she could? Why not? Why were they so
superior? It was unjust! She clenched her little fists. When she grew
up she would show people how great the injustice was! That she was
resolved upon.

Then little Angelika came running up, calling the children together
for a game. "Come, Ernestine," she cried. "You did not mean to do
it,--come, play blindman's buff with us."

Ernestine did not venture to make any objection; she was so cowed that
she did just as they told her, and let them make her "blind man," and
tie the handkerchief over her eyes. She never complained, although when
they were tying on the bandage they pulled her hair so that she ground
her teeth with pain. And then they all began to tease her. One pulled
at one of her long locks; another terrified her by putting beetles and
caterpillars upon her neck,--the usual tricks of the game, that are
easily borne when they are understood among little friends, but enough
to drive a shy child, that does not know how to defend herself, to
despair. No one would be caught by the ugly stranger, who had only been
admitted to the game at the express desire of the hostess, and all felt
themselves justified in playing all manner of tricks upon her.
Ernestine caught no one, and ran hither and thither in vain. She was
too conscientious to raise the handkerchief a little that she might see
where she was,--that would have been acting a falsehood, and she never
told falsehoods. Suddenly a hand seized her straw hat, and the worn old
brim gave way, and fell upon her shoulders like a collar, to the great
delight of the rest. It was a terrible loss for the poor child; for she
knew that she should get no other hat at home, but would be punished
for her carelessness. She grasped after her tormentor, and seized her
by the skirt; but she was one of the larger girls, and tore herself
away, leaving a piece of her elegant summer dress in Ernestine's hands,
which had clutched it tightly. She could not see how the girl ran to
her mother, bewailing the injury to her dress; the bandage over her
eyes beneficently shielded her from perceiving the angry looks of the
ladies, and absorbed the tears which she was silently shedding for her
straw hat. She stood motionless in the middle of the lawn, and did not
know what to do,--for no children seemed to be near,--the game appeared
to be interrupted. Suddenly she received a sound box on the ear. The
younger brother of the aggrieved young lady had stolen up and avenged
his sister. Then the tormented child was filled with indignation and
rage that almost deprived her of reason. She seized the boy as he tried
to pass her, and began to straggle with him. He forced her backwards,
step by step. She could not free her hands to untie the bandage; she
did not know where she was; she would not let go her enemy, for her
sufferings had filled her little heart with hate and fury. There was a
scream, and at the same instant she stumbled over something and fell;
she kept her hold of her foe, but she felt that she was up to her knees
in water,--she had stumbled into the basin of the fountain. The guests
hurried up. First seizing the boy, who was still in Ernestine's grasp,
they placed him in safety, and then they helped out the trembling
child, who stood there with torn, dripping clothes, an object of terror
and disgust to herself and to everybody else.

What mischief the horrible creature had done! She had almost fractured
one child's skull, she had torn the expensive dress of another, and had
tried to drown a third!

"Pray, my dear Staatsraethin, have my carriage ordered," said one of the
injured mothers; "one's life is not safe here!"

"Supper is ready," replied the Staatsraethin. "Let me entreat you all to
go into the house. I will answer for the lives of your children as long
as they are my guests," she added with a slight smile.

The ladies all called their sons and daughters to them, to protect them
from the little monster, who still stood there, bewildered and crushed,
upon the lawn, looking on with a bleeding heart, as the children,
laughing and joking, clung to their parents, whom they kissed and
caressed with affectionate freedom. Every child there had a mother or a
father who fondled it. She--she alone was thrust out and forsaken,--no
one remembered that she was tired and wet through,--no one cared for
her. The charming little Angelika was everywhere in requisition, and
could not come to her,--the Staatsraethin was entreating her guests to
pardon her for inviting a child whom she did not know; how could she
possibly suppose that Herr von Hartwich had a daughter so neglected?
Ernestine heard it all. She could no longer stand,--she fell upon her
knees, and, sobbing violently, hid her face in her hands. The
Staatsraethin was now free to come to her, and hastily approached.

"Oh, you poor little thing, you are wet through, and no one has thought
of you," she cried kindly, at sight of Ernestine. "Go into the house
quickly, and put on a pair of my little girl's shoes and stockings; my
room is just to the right of the drawing-room. Go immediately,--do you
hear? I cannot stay away from my guests."

"Forgive me,--it is not my fault!" stammered Ernestine.

"Indeed it is not, my dear child," said the Staatsraethin gravely. "I
only pity you,--I am not angry with you! But hurry now and take off
your dress,--I will send you your supper to my room. I know you would
rather eat it alone."

And she hastened away to her guests just as a vehicle drove up and a
strikingly handsome young man about twenty years old sprang out and
hurried up to her. "My dear boy," she cried, "is it you? I did not
expect you yet!"

The youth kissed her hand and bowed courteously to the rest. The
Staatsraethin's eyes rested upon him with the pride with which a woman
during her life regards two men only,--a lover and a darling son. The
guests surrounded him with congratulations upon the day's success;
Angelika danced around him, and the other children all wanted a hand or
a kiss. There was quite a little uproar of delight.

Suddenly the Staatsraethin cried out in a startled tone, "Little
Ernestine has gone! Heavens, that poor child wet through in the cool
evening air! I cannot allow it! Johannes, my dear son, run quickly,
bring her back."

"Who,--what?" he asked in amazement.

"But, my dearest Staatsraethin," said the mother of the boy whom
Ernestine's shot had wounded, "how can you worry yourself about the
little witch? she is tougher than our children."

The Staatsraethin glanced at her contemptuously, and, turning to
Johannes, continued: "She is a pale, meanly-clad little girl, eleven or
twelve years of age; you cannot miss her if you take the path to
Hartwich's estate; she is his daughter. Hasten, Johannes, hasten!" He
obeyed, while she conducted her guests to their sumptuous repast.

Meanwhile Ernestine ran through the grove as quickly as she could, and
began to breathe freely as she lost sight of the house where she had
undergone so much. But her strength soon failed her. Her wet shoes and
stockings clung like heavy lumps of lead to her weary feet and impeded
her steps; she was conscious of gnawing hunger, and the first care for
the future that she had yet felt in her short life assailed her,--she
was afraid that it would be too late for her to get anything to eat
when she reached home; it was growing dark, and it would be ten
o'clock; Frau Gedike would be in bed. And that was not the worst that
she had to look forward to; the straw hat, whose brim was still having
around her neck,--the heavy, torn straw hat, would certainly bring her
a severe chastisement. She sat down upon a mound on the borders of the
grove, and took off the brim to see if she could contrive some way of
fastening it to the crown, which she carried in her hand. The tree
above her shook its boughs compassionately and threw down its leaves
upon her dishevelled locks. She never heeded them,--the conviction lay
heavy upon her childish heart that she could not possibly mend the hat
before Frau Gedike would see it. Tear after tear dropped upon the
fragments, and her large, swimming eyes glimmered in the moonlight from
out her pale face like glow-worms in a lily-cup. Suddenly she started
violently, for some one stood before her, and she recognized the young
man whose arrival had just enabled her to make her escape. He looked at
her silently for a while, and then said, "Are you the little girl who
came to us to-day, and then ran away secretly?"

"Yes," stammered Ernestine.

"Why have you done so?" he asked further.

Ernestine made no reply. She was more ashamed before Johannes than
before all the rest of the company. He was very different from every
one else there,--so proud and strong,--he would despise her more than
the others had done, for he was much handsomer and finer than they, and
worth more than all of them. She did not venture to look up at him; she
was afraid of meeting another of those glances that had so tortured
her. Then the young man took her hand and said kindly, "Well, you pale
little dryad, can you not speak? Will you go with me, or would you
rather spend the night in your tree?"

"I want to go home!" said Ernestine.

"I cannot let you go home. I must take you to my mother. She is afraid
you will take cold. Come!"

Ernestine shrunk back. "I cannot go there any more!"

"Why not? What have they done to you?"

"They laughed at me, and jeered me," cried the irritated child; "they
despised me; and I will not be despised! I will not!"

The young man looked at her thoughtfully.

"Even if I am ugly," she continued, "and poor, and badly taught, and
awkward, I will not be treated like a dog!" There was a tone of despair
in her voice, her chest panted within her narrow dress, her teeth
chattered with cold and excitement.

"Poor child!" said Johannes; "they must have used you ill,--but my
mother was surely kind to you?"

"Yes, she was kind, but she was vexed with me at last; I heard her
blaming me to the others. And I do not want to see her again,--not
until I am grown up and can be as dignified and gentle as she is."

"Are you so certain, then, that you will one day be as gentle and
dignified?" asked Johannes smiling.

"Yes, the schoolmaster says, and the old gentleman said too, that if I
were a boy something might be made of me. Oh, something shall be made
of me,--if I am only a girl. I will not always have boys held up to me;
when I am grown up, they shall see that a girl is as good as a boy; all
these bad, unkind people shall respect me; if they do not, I would
rather die!"

"You queer child!" laughed Johannes, "it would be hard to tame you. But
see, if you stay any longer here with me in the night air, you will
take cold, and then you may die before you have carried out all your
resolutions; think how bad that will be!"

With these words he attempted to lead the child away with him, but she
snatched her hand from him and clung to the tree beneath which she had
been sitting. "No, no," she breathlessly entreated, "dear sir, let me
go--do not take me back again--please, please, not there!"

"Obstinate little thing, you must come," laughed Johannes. "Do you
suppose I can go back without you, after having been sent to find you
like a stray lamb? My mother would shut me up for three days upon bread
and water if I did not bring you back; you would not like that, would
you?"

"Ah, you are laughing at me. I will not go back with you, I will not,"
sobbed Ernestine.

"Will not? What is the use of such words from a weak little girl
who can be easily carried in arms?" With these words Johannes
good-humouredly lifted Ernestine from the ground and placed her on his
shoulder to take her back to the castle. But she succeeded in grasping
an overhanging branch of the oak-tree just above her, and, before
Johannes could prevent it, she had swung herself up by it, and was
clambering like a squirrel from bough to bough.

"This is delightful!" cried Johannes, much amused; "you are really,
then, a dryad in disguise? Such a prize must not escape; to be sure, I
never dreamed to-day, when I passed my examination, that the new Herr
Doctor's first feat would be to climb a tree after a wayward little
girl; but the episode is much more poetic than marching up and down
stairs, making my best bow to my old examiners." Daring this soliloquy
be had taken off his coat and climbed into the tree.

But when he tried to seize Ernestine, she retreated to the extremity of
the bough upon, which she was sitting, and was quite out of his reach;
he could not follow her, for the slender branch creaked and drooped so,
even beneath the child's light weight, that he momentarily expected it
to break. The jest had become earnest indeed: if the little girl fell,
she would fall a double distance,--the height of the tree and of the
hill which the tree crowned. Quick as thought the young man swung
himself down to the ground, and took his station where he might, if
possible, receive Ernestine in his arms if she fell. For the first time
he now saw how high she was perched, and a cloud before the moon just
at the moment prevented his perceiving the exact direction that she
must take in falling. His anxiety was intense. The responsibility of a
human life was suddenly thrust upon him. If he did not succeed in
catching the falling child, she would shortly lie before him, if not a
corpse, at least with broken limbs. The steep hill, too, made it almost
impossible for him to maintain a firm footing; wherever he planted his
feet, they slipped continually. The blood rushed to his face; his heart
beat audibly; with outstretched arms he gazed up at the child, who sat
above him, all unconscious of her danger.

"Little one," he cried breathlessly, "the branch where you are sitting
will not bear you! scramble back again, or you will fall!"

"I will not come down until you promise me not to carry me back! I
shall not fall," she panted, and snatched at a stronger bough above
her, but it sprang back from her grasp, leaving only a few twigs in her
hand.

"I will promise anything that you want," cried Johannes in deadly
terror, "only go back quickly to the trunk--quickly--quickly!"

The bough cracked, just as the child swung herself towards the trunk,
and it fell to the ground,--leaving her clinging to the stump where it
grew from the trunk; and when Johannes climbed up to her and she could
at last reach his shoulder, she was trembling so with fright that she
willingly clasped her thin arms around his neck. With difficulty he
reached the ground again with his burden, his hands scratched and
bleeding and his shirt-sleeve torn. He put down Ernestine, and,
stepping back a pace or two, regarded her gravely; then, after wiping
the moisture from his brow, he began in a serious tone of voice, "Do
you know what I would do if I were your father?"

Ernestine looked up at him inquiringly.

"I would give you a taste of the rod, that you might learn not to
frighten people so just for your own wayward whims!"

These words, prompted by the young man's irritation at the anxiety to
which he had been subjected, had a fearful effect upon the child. She
gave a piercing cry, and threw herself upon the ground. "Oh, nothing
but blows, blows--he too, he too! Who will not strike me and abuse me?
who is there to take pity upon me?" and she sobbed uncontrollably.

"Good heavens," said Johannes, half compassionately and half annoyed,
"was there ever such a child! First you climb into a tree at peril of
your life, just that you may gratify your self-will, and then a single
word of blame crushes you to the earth. I never saw anything like it!"
Saying this, he lifted her up and held her out before him in the
moonlight, regarding her as one would some rare animal or natural
curiosity.

"Here is a thing," he said, more to himself than to Ernestine, "so
frail and delicate that you could crush it in your grasp, but there is
such strength of will in the little frame that one is forced to yield
to it, and such a wildly throbbing heart in the little breast that one
is carried away by it in spite of one's self. I should like to know
what odd combinations have produced this strange piece of humanity. Do
not cry any more, little one; I will not harm you--what eyes the
creature has! You are a remarkable child, but I would not like to have
the charge of you--you would puzzle one well, and force and blows would
have no effect upon you!"

With these words he put her down upon the ground again and picked up
his coat to put it on. As he did so, he felt something hard in the
pocket; he looked to see what it was, and drew out a book in a splendid
binding.

"Ah," he cried gaily, "I had forgotten this. Can you read?"

Ernestine nodded. She was glad that she had not to say no; how ashamed
she would have been!

"Come, that's right!" said the young man; and Ernestine was very proud
of those first words of commendation, and determined instantly to be
doubly diligent, that she might some time hear just such another
"That's right!"

Johannes put the book into her hand. "There, you shall have that, that
you may carry something pleasant home with you after such a dreary day.
The stories are charming. I brought it out for my little sister
Angelika, but I could not give it to her because I had to run after
you. Now I am glad that I have it still and can give it to you."

"Yes--but Angelika?" Ernestine asked hesitatingly.

"She shall have another to-morrow. Take it, and read the story of the
Ugly Duckling; that will comfort you when people are cross to you. Take
it--why do you hesitate?"

The child took the book as carefully and timidly as if it were in
reality a fairy book and would vanish at her touch. When she had it in
her hands and it did not disappear, and she could really believe in her
happiness in receiving such a present, she uttered a scarcely audible
"Thank you very much!" but the look that accompanied the words touched
Johannes.

"You do not often have presents?" he asked.

"Never!"

"Oh! you seem not to be very affectionately treated. Does not your
mother ever give you anything?"

"I have no mother. She died because I was not a boy."

"A most remarkable cause of death," observed Johannes, half dryly, half
compassionately.

"Ah, if I had a mother, everything would be different." And the large
tears rolled down over her cheeks.

"Listen, little one," said Johannes kindly, after a pause. "I have a
dear mother, and I will share her with you--half a mother's heart is
better than none at all. Come home with me. You shall be my little
sister, and you will be gentle enough when you know us better."

Ernestine shook her head decidedly. The thought of returning to the
castle again filled her with dismay. "No, no, never!" she cried in
terror. "Your mother would not love me--she could not! You promised me
a minute ago not to force me to anything, and if you think now that I
ought to do as you please, because you have given me the book, I would
rather not have it. There, take it--I will not have it!"

Johannes rejected the offered book with some vexation. "Keep it," he
said. "I gave it to you unconditionally. I only thought that my
kindness had made you gentler and more docile, but I was wrong. You are
not to be moved by kindness either. Sad to see a heart so early
hardened!"

Ernestine stood motionless, with downcast eyes--she scarcely breathed;
the emotions that agitated her were so novel, so different from
anything she had hitherto experienced, that she struggled in vain to
give utterance to them; her childish lips had no words to express them.
She was pained, and yet her pain, although deeper than any she had
already suffered, had no bitterness in it. She did not hate him who had
caused it--she could have kissed his hand, and, falling at his feet,
begged him to forgive her--but she did not dare to do so.

"Well," he asked, after a moment's silence, "shall I go home with you?"

Ernestine shook her head.

"Not that, either? Will you go alone?" he asked impatiently.

Ernestine nodded.

"Well, I have promised to do as you pleased, and I shall keep my
promise, although I do not think it right to leave you to go home alone
so late at night. Let me at least go with you across the fields? Are
you grown dumb?"

Ernestine lifted to his her large melancholy eyes so beseechingly that
he lost his composure. "You are enough to drive one insane, you
enigmatical little creature! Who taught you that look--the look of an
angel imprisoned by some evil magician in the body of a kobold? God
knows what will become of you! You will not let me come, then? No? Are
you not afraid? Nothing to be got out of you but a shake of the head!
Well, go! I cannot force you. Good-night, then!" He held out his hand;
she seized it, pressed it with passionate energy, and then ran across
the fields as fast as her feet could carry her. Johannes let her run
for some minutes, and then followed her at a distance; he could not
allow the helpless child to go home without watching over her safety.
She ran as if she had wings, without once looking round; but Johannes
noticed that she kissed the book several times, and pressed it to her
heart, as if it had been some living thing. When at last he came in
sight of Ernestine's home, he stopped. "Heaven be merciful to the man
who will one day take her for a wife!" he thought, and slowly turned
away.

Ernestine entered the garden of her dreary home with a throbbing heart.
A grumbling maid-servant opened the door for her. "You are late," she
scolded. "That is just like you--first you wouldn't go, and then you
don't want to come home. You always want to do something else than what
you should."

Ernestine made no reply. "Can I have something to eat?" she asked
briefly.

"To eat! Likely, indeed! Am I to go to the stable at ten o'clock at
night and milk a cow for you? for there is nothing else that I can get.
You know well enough that I have no keys!"

"Is Frau Gedike in bed, then?"

"If you were not so stupid, you might know that!"

"But I am hungry!"

"That serves you right; you should have eaten enough at the party. Of
course they gave you something to eat?"

Ernestine was silent, and followed the maid into the room, where she
hastily concealed her torn hat in the wardrobe. "My feet are wet," she
said, shivering. "Give me some dry stockings."

"Of course you have been dragging through all the puddles, and then
want dry stockings at this hour of the night! Get into bed as soon as
you can; you will have no other stockings to-night. Good-night--I am
going to bed myself." And the servant left the room, taking with her
the dim tallow candle that she had in her hand, and Ernestine was left
alone in the apartment, into which the moon shone brightly. Suppressed
rage at the servant's coarse harshness burrowed and gnawed in the
child's heart like a hidden mole. Everything that had lately happened
vanished at this rude contact. Her soul had expanded at the first touch
of a large, kindly nature, like a bud in the air of spring--the frost
that now fell upon it was doubly painful. She was again the same
forsaken, abused child whose vital energies were consumed by impotent
hate of her tormentors. Had she really lived the last hour! Had any one
really spoken so kindly to her--one, too, better and handsomer than all
the others?

She caught up her book as if it were a talisman; it was real; it
had not vanished; it was all true, then. And yet she had been so
self-willed and cross to the kind, kind gentleman, and had not even
told him how grateful she was; how he must despise her! He could not do
otherwise. She understood now how different she must be before she
could hope to win the liking of such a man as Johannes. How should she
do it? She could not tell; but something stirred within her that
exalted her above herself. She looked up to heaven in childlike
entreaty, and prayed, "Dear God, make me good!" Then she pressed the
book to her heart; it was her most precious possession, her first
friend; and the desire took hold of her to see now what this friend
would tell her. But she could not read by moonlight, and she dared not
get a candle, for she slept next to Frau Gedike, who allowed no reading
at night. She stood hesitating and looked sorrowfully at the beautiful
binding, with its gay arabesques. Suddenly it occurred to her that
there was always a night-lamp burning in her father's room; it was a
happy thought. She drew off her wet boots with difficulty, and crept
softly into Hartwich's apartment. The invalid was lying upon his back,
sound asleep. He breathed and snored so loudly that the child was
almost terrified; but she was determined to proceed, and slipped past
the bed. She seated herself cautiously, opened the book in a state of
feverish expectation, and of course turned to the story that Johannes
had mentioned to her. The book contained the charming, touching tales
of Hans Andersen. Ernestine, greatly moved, read the story of the Ugly
Duckling. She read how it was abused and maltreated by all because it
was so different from the other ducks, and how at last it came to be a
magnificent swan, far finer and more beautiful than the insignificant
fowls who had despised it. The impression made upon her by this story
is not to be described. The poor duckling's woes were hers also, and as
if upon swan's pinions the promise of a fair future hovered above her
from the page that she was reading. "Shall I ever be such a swan?" she
asked again and again. Her heart overflowed with new emotions of joy
and pain, she covered her eyes with her thin hands and sobbed as if she
would, as the saying is, "cry her soul out." Then her father awoke, and
called out, "Who is there?" Ernestine hastened to him and fell on her
knees at his bedside. She seized his hand and would have kissed it; he
snatched it angrily away, but the tears that she had shed had melted
her very heart. "Father, dear father!" she cried, "I have been very
naughty and self-willed. Forgive, and love me only a little, and I will
love you dearly!"

Hartwich turned his face to the wall, and growled, "Why did you wake
me? Where's the use of slipping in here at this hour? Do you think I
had rather listen to your stupid whining than sleep?"

"Father," cried Ernestine, taking his lame hand that he could not
withdraw from her. "Father, do not send me away from you. I will be
good,--help me to be so. I cannot be good if you are always harsh to
me. I saw to-day how all the children have parents who love them. I
only am disliked by every one, and yet I have a heart too, and would
love to see kind looks and hear kind words. I will not cry ever any
more, if you will not make me cry, and I will try my best to be just
like a boy, that you may not be sorry any more that I am a girl. Ah,
father, it seems to-day as if the dear God in heaven had told me what I
long for. Love, father, love,--ah, give me some, and take pity upon
your poor ugly child!"

The invalid had turned towards the child again, and was staring at her
in amazement, with lack-lustre eyes; it seemed as if some unbidden
feeling were struggling for utterance from the depths of his moral and
physical degradation; his breath came quick, he tried to speak.
Ernestine did not venture to look at him; a strong odour of brandy told
her that her father's face was near her own, but this odour was so
utterly disgusting to her that she involuntarily recoiled, and thus
avoided the lips that would perhaps have bestowed upon her the first
kiss that she had ever in her life received from them. The invalid must
have known this, for he turned away again, muttering something
unintelligible. After a long pause, he felt for a tumbler that stood on
a table beside his bed, but it was empty. "I'm thirsty!" he said
peevishly. "Shall I bring you some water, father?" asked Ernestine. The
sick man made a gesture of disgust "No! but you can go up to your uncle
and tell him to send me that medicine that he spoke of; he will know
what I want. But ask him only,--do you hear?--him only. And tell no one
that I sent you, or you shall suffer for it, I promise you. And now go
quickly: I'm tortured with thirst!"

Ernestine arose from her knees, and looked at her father with the grief
that we feel when we have lavished our best, our most sacred emotions
upon an unworthy object. Hitherto she had required nothing of him;
to-day, for the first time, as she looked around for some one to whose
love, in her loneliness, she possessed a right, it had occurred to her
that she had a father. She had turned to him with an overflowing heart,
and had found a drunkard, who had resigned all claims to respect, both
as a man and a father. Mute and crushed alike physically and mentally,
she slipped out and up the stairs to her uncle. She was to bring brandy
to the sick man, although she remembered that the physician had
forbidden all heating drinks; but she must fulfil her father's
commands, or receive the cruellest treatment at his hands. She entered
her uncle's room, slowly and timidly; she was afraid of his wife. But
Bertha had gone to bed; there was no one in the room but Leuthold, who
was standing by the open window, to the frame of which he had screwed a
long tube.

"Ah, little Ernestine, have you come so late to see your uncle?" he
said kindly.

"Uncle, what is that?" asked Ernestine, forgetting her errand in her
wonder at the strange instrument.

"That is a telescope," her uncle informed her.

"What are you doing with it?" she asked further.

"I am looking into the moon, my child."

"Ah! can you do that?" she cried, in the greatest amazement.

"Certainly I can. Would you like to look through it?"

"Ah, yes; if I only might!" whispered Ernestine, enchanted at the
offer.

Leuthold lifted her upon the window-sill and adjusted the telescope for
her. She was half frightened when she suddenly found the shining
sphere, which she had always seen hovering so far above her in the sky,
brought so near to her eyes. Her breast expanded to receive such an
inconceivable miracle. She gazed and gazed, looking, breathless with
the desire of knowledge, at the mountains, valleys, and jagged craters
that were so magically revealed. The warm night air fanned her burning
brow. Everything around her faded and was forgotten as the tired heart
of the child throbbed with fervent longing for the peace of that new,
distant world.




                             CHAPTER III.

                               ATONEMENT.


The day began slowly to dawn, for a dim, cloudy sky usurped the throne
of departing night. Drops of rain fell here and there,--it was a
cheerless morning. Not a cock crowed--not a bird was stirring. The dog
remained hidden in his kennel.

Now and then an early labourer, with his spade upon his shoulder,
would pass along the fence encircling Hartwich's estate, and would look
over it with surprise at the strange bustle prevailing in house and
court-yard. Doors were opened and shut; servant-maids, with eyes heavy
with sleep, were running hither and thither; water was brought from the
well; no questions or answers were exchanged. It was as if every one
avoided speaking of what had occurred. A groom brought a saddled horse
from the stable, mounted, and galloped furiously in the direction of
the estate of the Staatsraethin. "Is there a fire anywhere?" a couple of
peasants shouted after him, but he made no reply. Without a word, he
galloped across field and moor, never drawing rein until he reached the
garden of the Staatsraethin. He tugged violently at the bell until a
sleepy servant came to the door and asked him angrily what he wanted.

"Wake up the Geheimrath Heim, he is here on a visit. The village doctor
sent me,--a human life is at stake!"

The servant opened his eyes wide, and stared inquiringly at the groom.

"Yes, yes; quick, be quick! Hartwich has beaten his child so, we think
she is dying. The barber says perhaps the Geheimrath can save her."

"Good gracious, that is terrible!" cried the horrified servant, and ran
to call the old gentleman.

The Geheimrath was up in a moment; without losing time by a single
word, he dressed himself, mounted the groom's horse, and rushed off to
the scene of the disaster.

Before the door of the house, awaiting his arrival, stood the village
barber-surgeon, who received him with the deepest reverence. "Herr
Geheimrath, I pray you to excuse me,--but, as I knew you were in the
neighbourhood, I conceived it my duty to entreat your assistance before
sending for the physician, who lives three leagues off. The case seems
to me a serious one."

"Never excuse yourself," said Heim, taking off his hat and coat in the
hall; "it is my duty to aid wherever I can. But, in Heaven's name, how
did it happen? Where is the child injured?"

"She has a wound in her head, and I fear the skull is fractured,"
replied the barber, opening the door of the room leading to Hartwich's
apartment. The Geheimrath heard a loud sobbing as soon as the door was
opened. He entered, and before him lay the invalid, weeping and wailing
like a maniac, with the child stretched out stiff and corpse-like upon
the bed; her eyes were closed and deep-sunk in their large sockets; her
pale lips were slightly parted,--it was a sorry sight. Hartwich
supported her bandaged head upon his arm, and, weeping loudly, pressed
kiss after kiss upon her white brow.

"Ah, Herr Geheimrath!" he shrieked, "come here! I am a wicked,
miserable father. I have killed my child! I am a man given over to the
worst of all vices,--drunkenness; it is my only excuse. Accuse me; have
me sent, crippled as I am, to jail,--I care not; but bring my child to
life, or the sting of conscience will drive me mad!"

The Geheimrath took the passive hand of the child and felt the pulse.
"It is greatly to be regretted that your conscience was not as active
before the deed as it appears to be now that it is committed," he said
coldly and sternly, as he removed the bandage from the child's head.

"Oh, oh," wailed Hartwich, shutting his eyes, "do not do that here! I
cannot see the blood; I cannot see the wound; it will kill me!"

"What! you could make the wound and cannot look at it!" said the
Geheimrath inexorably, beginning to probe the wound. "It is a most
serious case," he said. "Has the child moved at all?"

"Yes, yes; oh, heavens, yes; until she grew so rigid!" gasped Hartwich,
seizing Ernestine's hand to kiss it. Then he looked up at the physician
in mortal terror. "How is it? must she--oh, Christ! must she die?" And
again he broke out into the loud childish weeping peculiar to persons
unnerved by sickness or drink.

"Control yourself," ordered the Geheimrath. "I cannot come to any
decision yet. The injury to the skull is not fatal; what the effect of
the concussion will be, I cannot tell. But, with the child's delicate
constitution----" He shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah, you give me no hope," moaned Hartwich. "Ernestine, wake up! only
look once at your father, your cruel, wicked father! Ah, Herr
Geheimrath, I disliked the child because she was so weak and ugly. If
she had only been a fine, healthy girl, I might perhaps have been
reconciled to having no son; but I was ashamed of her, and silenced the
voice of my heart. Oh, these hands, poor little hands, and these pale,
thin cheeks!--how could I ever strike them! God be merciful to me,
miserable sinner that I am!" And he beat his breast fiercely.

The Geheimrath looked at him and shook his head. "Do not excite
yourself so. It does your daughter no good, and only injures yourself."

"My daughter! my daughter!" repeated Hartwich. "Oh, I have never
treated her as such. She seemed to me a changeling, left in her cradle
by some spiteful witch in place of the boy I so coveted. Now, when I am
in danger of losing her, I feel that she is my child indeed."

"The truth is as old as the world, that nature avenges the
transgression of the least of her laws," replied the physician. "You
have sinned grievously against the mighty law of paternal affection,
and now it demands its rights with resistless authority. Let me entreat
you to testify your repentance by the tenderest care of the sick child,
and permit me to call some one to put her to bed,--it should have been
done long ago."

"Ah, must she be separated from me?" moaned Hartwich. "I long to beg
her forgiveness when she comes to herself."

"You will hardly be able to do that very soon," said the Geheimrath,
ringing the bell.

Frau Gedike made her appearance, as gentle and submissive as she had
previously been harsh and overbearing to Ernestine.

"Assist me in carrying this child to her bed," said Heim, carefully
placing his arm beneath the rigid little body to raise it up.

"Oh, I beg of you, Herr Geheimrath, do not trouble yourself," cried
Frau Gedike, evidently greatly humbled. "I can carry the poor child
without help."

Heim glanced at her keenly, and then quietly directed her to show him
the way.

Frau Gedike ran as quickly as she could across the hall to the door of
a back room. "Permit me," she said, and tried to slip past the
Geheimrath into the apartment. "Excuse me for one moment, that I may
put things a little to rights. Everything is in disorder, I rose so
early this morning."

But Heim said authoritatively, "Follow me!" and stepped past her into
the chamber, carrying his silent burden. Here he stood still in
astonishment. It was a kind of wash-room,--at least there was a huge
pile of soiled linen in one corner. Broken furniture and household
utensils were scattered about; there were no curtains to the windows;
hundreds of flies were buzzing about the dirty panes; the air of the
close room was stifling. In one corner stood a child's crib, which must
have dated from Ernestine's fifth or sixth year. It contained an old
straw bed, a dirty pillow, and a heavy, tawdry coverlet. Frau Gedike
bustled about, endeavouring to conceal us well as she could the
miserable condition of the room from the penetrating eye of the
Geheimrath, but in vain.

"Am I to lay the wounded child in this bed? Is she to be nursed in this
hole?" he asked in a tone which boded no good to the housekeeper.

"Gracious me!--we have no other room and no other bed. I have often
pitied the dear child, but Herr Hartwich is so saving--he never buys
anything new," she declared.

The Geheimrath went towards a half-open door leading into another and
larger apartment. Here the air was pure, the furniture decent, and
there was a comfortable bed in the corner.

"Is this your room?" asked the Geheimrath sharply.

"It is, Herr Geheimrath. It is just as my predecessor left it."

"Make up the bed instantly with clean linen."

Frau Gedike stared in surprise.

"Instantly!" repeated the Geheimrath, in a way that admitted of no
remonstrance, and seated himself, that he might more conveniently hold
his poor little charge. Frau Gedike brought clean sheets and made up
the bed.

"Where shall I sleep?" she asked with suppressed rage: "there is no
other sleeping-room in the whole house!"

"You can try Ernestine's bed, and see what it is to lie cramped up upon
a rack!" replied the old gentleman dryly. Then he wrinkled his bushy
brows sternly, and continued: "I doubt whether you will need a bed
here, for I will do my best to have you leave this house before night."

"Oh, Lord, have mercy on me! Herr Geheimrath, what have I done? What
fault can you find with me?" whined Frau Gedike as she smoothed the
pillows.

Heim arose, and, as he laid the lifeless little body carefully upon the
bed, said quietly, "Look at the room which you have allowed this frail
child to occupy, the bed in which you have cramped her poor little
limbs, and then say whether anybody of the least humanity could fail to
condemn you!" He then left her, and called the barber-surgeon that he
might take the necessary steps for providing careful attendance for the
child.

Frau Gedike ran out crying, and the Geheimrath continued to provide for
his patient's comfort with the quiet decision of an experienced
physician and the gentleness of a tender-hearted man.

After half an hour, Ernestine began to show signs of life; but she did
not return to consciousness. She cast a vague, wandering glance around,
then closed her eyes and muttered broken, unintelligible words. At last
she sank anew into a state of stupor resembling slumber. The Geheimrath
left the surgeon with her and went to Hartwich, who, in the mean while,
had been visited by Leuthold. Leuthold had been wakened at last by the
unwonted bustle in the house, and had stolen from his bed to see if his
brother were perhaps dying,--a piece of news which would have been a
grateful morning greeting to his wife. He was disappointed. The only
comfort was that all this excitement would inevitably accelerate
Hartwich's death; Ernestine's fate was a matter of perfect indifference
to him, but he was greatly disturbed by the intelligence that Heim had
been called in. He could not bear the man, whose presence brought out
clear and distinct, as with some chemical preparation, the stains upon
his name that had apparently faded away. He therefore determined to
leave home for a few days, in order to avoid a meeting with the witness
of his disgrace; but he would leave his wife on guard in the lower
story, under the pretence of helping to nurse Ernestine. Her presence
would naturally hinder the physician from saying anything to Hartwich
to his, Leuthold's, detriment. He slipped up-stairs to bid his wife
arise quickly; but the indolent woman was too long about it for his
wishes or his plans.

Scarcely had he left Hartwich when Heim entered the room. "What news do
you bring me?" Hartwich cried out.

"Nothing hopeful as yet. She showed signs of life when we applied
ice-bandages; but the lethargy into which she fell immediately is
alarming. I cannot give you any hope before the end of three days."

Hartwich struck his damp forehead in despair. "It will kill me! it will
kill me!"

The Geheimrath seated himself by his bedside, took a pinch of snuff
from a golden box adorned with a miniature of the king, and calmly
regarded the unhappy man. "Now tell me, Herr von Hartwich, how it all
occurred. I should like to know. Besides the wound on the head, the
child has bruises on her shoulders and arms that are by no means fresh.
She seems to have been most cruelly treated!"

The invalid was silent for awhile, and then said, "Yes,--ah, yes, we
have all abused her; but God knows I never intended this last! I was
sound asleep yesterday evening when Ernestine came home and crept in to
me here and waked me with her sobs."

"Poor child! she had cause to weep," the Geheimrath interrupted him.

"Yes, yes,--but I did not understand that yesterday. When I awoke, I
was thirsty, and sent her up to my brother to bring me a little--a
little--a few drops----"

"To bring you liquor," the Geheimrath completed the sentence.

"Yes, I confess it," Hartwich continued; "but in her uncle's room there
was a telescope, and she looked through it and forgot her father's
errand. I waited and waited, with my throat on fire, but she did not
come. I grew more and more impatient; and when, at the end of a full
half-hour, she came down without what I had sent her for, I seized hold
of her to beat her; she clung to my lame arm so that the pain made me
wild,--and in my senseless rage I flung her off and hurled her away
with my healthy arm;--may it be crippled forever! She fell backward,
and struck the back of her head first against the marble top of my
wash-stand,--you can see the blood there still,--and then upon the
floor, where she lay like one dead. Everything grew black before my
eyes, as it did when I had the stroke. I rang for my people; no one
came. I could not move,--could not leave my bed to go to the child. I
saw her blood flow, I heard her gasp as if in the death-agony, and I
lay here a miserable cripple, thinking that I had killed my child. Oh,
Herr Geheimrath, at such a time our inmost selves are revealed to as;
in such agony one learns to pray. At last, after repeated ringing and
calling, my good-for-nothing servants made their appearance. Herr
Geheimrath, I cannot tell you how I felt when they laid the child upon
my bed,--my poor, beaten child. As the little bleeding head lay on my
arm, it seemed as if my heart opened wide with the gaping wound, and,
for the first time, real, warm, paternal affection gushed from it.
Before, when I chastised the child, she was all defiance and
stubbornness; then I did not care if I hurt her; but now, as she lay
mute and crushed before me, she spoke to me in a language that recalled
me to myself. And, Herr Geheimrath, I have not been myself,--I have
drunk myself down to the level of a brute; and the poor victim of my
fury has recalled me from my degradation."

The Geheimrath listened to the speaker with growing sympathy. When he
had finished, he took his hand. "You are right, Herr von Hartwich, to
be frank with me. Men who are not evil by nature can best excuse their
evil deeds by frankness, for their intentions are seldom as bad as
their actions. Compose yourself,--your condition is indeed worthy of
compassion. If the physician might be allowed to usurp in a measure the
confessor's chair at such a time as the present, I would say for your
consolation, in the event of the worst termination to the child's
illness, that your irresponsible condition, which rendered you
incapable of appreciating the consequences of your act, and which would
excuse you before an earthly tribunal, should have some weight with
your inward judge. Besides, you have certainly acted paternally towards
the child in one respect," he added with significance. "You have
accumulated a fine property for her. That will enable her to occupy
such a position in the world as will make her life, if it is spared, a
happy one."

Hartwich seized Heim's hand and whispered quickly and anxiously "Ah, my
dear sir, I have not done this; it now lies heavy on my soul that I
have not been a father to the child in any way!"

"What do you mean?" cried Heim with apparent surprise. "You have not
set Ernestine aside in favour of another?"

Hartwich looked anxiously towards the door. The Geheimrath understood
his look, and opened it,--no listener was near. Hartwich then confessed
all to the Geheimrath that the latter already knew. Heim shook his
head. "It is incredible that a father should do so by his own child;
but, now that your sense of duty is aroused, you will of course atone
for your injustice?"

"Ah, Herr Geheimrath, if I only could, how gladly would I do so! If my
poor Ernestine recovers, I would gladly make over to her the whole
estate during my lifetime. Tell me, how shall I begin to make amends?
how shall I begin to atone to the child for all the misery I have
caused her? I will do anything, everything, if I only can. Assist me,
advise me!"

"I think," began the Geheimrath with quiet decision, "that the case is
very simple. You can make a new will and declare the other void. If
Ernestine recovers, it is very doubtful whether she will be anything
more than a poor, sickly invalid during her entire lifetime. Such an
unfortunate being needs money,--a great deal of money; for sickness is
an expensive affair. The child was naturally healthy. She has been
weakened by neglect and harsh treatment. You left her to a worthless
housekeeper, who denied her everything that a child should have in
order to be strong, and in her weakened condition you have dealt her a
death-blow from which she can hardly recover. You must be conscious
that, since you have almost destroyed Ernestine's life, you ought at
least to provide her with the means of making her invalid existence as
endurable as possible, and indemnify her for a neglected childhood by
every enjoyment that wealth can procure."

Again Hartwich broke out into loud lamentations. "Yes, yes, you are
right,--you are a man of honour, Herr Geheimrath. But how can I set
aside my will without encountering Leuthold's bitterest hate? Ah, you
do not know what a dangerous enemy he is."

"I know, I know," Heim interrupted him, nodding his head; "he is a bad
fellow; but tell me, Herr von Hartwich, what do you fear from him? Will
not the curse of your unfortunate child, if she lives, be harder to
bear than the hate of such a miserable wretch as your step-brother?"

Hartwich writhed and turned in his bed. "If I had only sold the
factory! If he should learn that I had disinherited him, he is quite
capable of preventing the sale out of sheer revenge, ruining the whole
business for me, and then the poor child would be deprived of half of
her property!"

The Geheimrath held his snuff-box in one hand, clasped the other over
it, and looked at Hartwich with a smile.

"If that is why you hesitate, there is no cause for fear. The factory
is as good as sold; for Herr Neuenstein, the brother of the
Staatsraethin Moellner, is most anxious to purchase it for his son, who
is a chemist;--he knows your brother, and would easily see through his
wiles. Besides, Gleissert need know nothing about it for the present.
Make the will secretly. I will give you pen and ink when I have written
a prescription for Ernestine. Send your housekeeper off immediately,
that we may have no spies about; for I believe her to be capable of any
treachery, and Ernestine must not be left in her charge. This afternoon
I shall come again, and you can put the document into my hands, where
it will be safe. Well--how does the plan please you?"

"Yes, yes," cried Hartwich passionately. "That is right. That I can do.
Ah, it is all that is left for me to do for my child, and it shall be
done. Send Gedike away;--get me pen, ink, and paper,--it must not be
delayed an hour longer than is necessary. I feel I may die at any
moment. Remove this burden from my soul, and I shall die more
peacefully!"

Heim went instantly to procure writing-materials, for he knew better
than the invalid himself that there must be no delay in the matter. The
servants brought him what he wanted, and he looked in upon Ernestine
for a moment, while the surgeon went for more ice for the bandages. She
was lying there moaning and groaning restlessly. He looked at her
lovingly, and said to himself, "Poor child! There are better days in
store for you." Then he repaired to Frau Gedike, whom he informed of
her dismissal, and appointed Rieka, the elder of the maid-servants,--a
girl whose face pleased him,--Ernestine's attendant.

When he returned to Hartwich, he found him in a state of great
excitement. His face was purple, the veins greatly swollen.

"Where have you been so long?" he cried out as the Geheimrath entered.
"I was in agony for fear I should have another stroke. I felt just as I
did before! There, give me the writing-materials--it would be terrible
if I were to die now, before I had atoned for my crime. Pray help me
up, Herr Geheimrath,--but do not touch my lame arm,--oh, this pain!
There, there,--thank you. Now the pen. I have thought it all over while
you were away. I will arrange it so that he cannot say I broke my word
to him, and he cannot harm Ernestine if I should die shortly. Ah,
air!--Herr Geheimrath,--open a window! After I have written--I shall be
easier. Then my mind will be relieved."

He spoke in breathless haste, while the perspiration stood in beads
upon his forehead.

"Be calm, be calm!" said the Geheimrath soothingly. "You are not going
to die now, but you will make yourself ill with this excitement."

"Ah, you are kind,--you wish to console me;--but I feel that last night
will be my death--there is no time to lose!"

He dipped the pen in the ink, and looked towards the door. "If only
Leuthold does not come,--all is lost if he does. Bolt it, I pray, that
he may not surprise us. Tell me, will it not be best to make him
Ernestine's heir? Then I shall not be quite false to my promise,--it
is, alas, alas, more likely that the poor little lamb will die than
that she will recover; then all will be as it was, and the property
will be his,--and, if she lives, he must have a good legacy."

"Yes, yes," said the Geheimrath good-humouredly, "give the fellow what
you think you owe him. But remember that he inherits from Ernestine
only in case of her dying unmarried; for if it be God's will that she
lives, marries, and has children, you must not deprive those children
of the property. That might make her very unhappy."

"Yes, you are right,--I will insert that clause. But the
guardianship,--what do you think? I must make Leuthold her guardian, or
he will be terribly angry!"

The Geheimrath shook his head. "I would not do that!"

"Oh, yes, Herr Geheimrath. It would look too ugly, and the child will
be in no kind of danger. He always liked Ernestine, and stood up for
her; and he will be afraid, too, not to fill his post of guardian
conscientiously, for he will be under the supervision of the orphans'
court."

"Then make her minority as short as possible. For my satisfaction, have
it expressly stated that she shall be of age at eighteen. Such
precaution is necessary with men of Gleissert's stamp. According to our
laws, a father can declare his child of age at eighteen. Her property
can remain in the orphans' court until then, when it can be placed at
her own disposal."

"Yes, yes, I agree to all that,--then it is all settled! God be
thanked!" Hartwich drew a long sigh of relief, and dipped the pen in
the ink. But scarcely had he attempted the first stroke when he dropped
the pen in despair and cried out, "Merciful Heaven! I cannot form a
letter!"

The startled Geheimrath looked at the paper. The letters were entirely
illegible.

For one moment the old gentleman lost all hope,--while Hartwich sobbed
and groaned like a child. Was he to fail thus, just when the goal was
reached? The Geheimrath regarded the invalid thoughtfully, pondering
how long a delay his condition would permit. Then he made up his mind,
and said with composure, "I will arrange it all; do not be at all
anxious. I will drive to the nearest town and procure the services of a
couple of lawyers, and you shall dictate your will. I will be back
again in two hours. Tell me when Leuthold is used to be away from home,
that he may know nothing of our plans."

"At the time of your return he will be at the factory. If you go on
foot as far as the corner of the wood, he will not see you. Herr
Geheimrath, you are a true man,--my child's benefactor and mine. How
shall I ever thank you?"

"There is no need of thanks,--no need at all! I am only doing my duty
as a man and a Christian." And the prudent old physician concealed the
writing-materials and hurried out.

Hartwich cast his blood-shot eyes upward and prayed, "Let me live until
it is complete, O God,--only until then!" These words he repeated again
and again, while his heart beat more wildly and irregularly, and his
veins grew blue and swollen. It was the mortal agony of a doomed wretch
who feels that a short time will bring him to the bar of an inexorable
judge, and who longs to throw off at least a part of his burden of
guilt. Of course such anguish would hasten his death.

Frau Bertha came down soon after the Geheimrath's departure, and would
have stayed in Hartwich's room, but his state terrified her. She saw
that the end was near, and she had not the courage to look on at the
death-agony. In her heart she felt herself a murderess, because she had
so ardently desired his death. Indeed, fate often makes us by our
silent desires accomplices in its severity, and we are stricken with
vain remorse when our secret hostility to another suddenly takes form
and shape in events. Who has not at some time in his life secretly
nourished a selfish desire, and, after it has been crushed down,
fervently thanked Heaven for not cursing him with a granted prayer? Or,
if the evil has been permitted, who has not in his remorse half
believed that his secret desire helped to work the mischief that has
been done? Frau Bertha's perceptions were not very delicate. She wished
for Hartwich's death that she might enjoy his wealth, and thanked
Heaven that it would shortly be hers; but she was too much of a woman
not to shudder at the moment of the fulfilment of her evil desires and
see an avenging demon in Hartwich's dying form. She resolved,
therefore, to disobey her lord and master, and avoid the death-bed. The
cogent reasons that Leuthold had for enjoining constant watchfulness
she could not comprehend; and therefore, as soon as Leuthold left for
the factory, she betook herself to her apartments again.

Hartwich was now left upon his burning couch, devoured by anxiety. The
minutes crept slowly on; every quarter of an hour, news of Ernestine
was brought him; there was no change for an hour, and then Rieka came
in suddenly and cried, "Ah, sir, Ernestine is awake and wants some
book; we cannot understand what one, or what she means, she speaks so
indistinctly, and whatever we get her is wrong. What is to be done?"

"Send a servant into town to buy every child's-book that is to be
had,--let her want for nothing,--do you hear? for nothing! Has she not
mentioned me?"

"Oh, no," replied the servant; "she is not herself,--she is continually
moaning for her book!"

"Then get her what she wants, as quickly as possible,--only be quick!"

The servant left the room, and the sick man was left to his brooding
thoughts again. It worried and tormented him that Ernestine would have
to wait several hours for what she wanted. In a few moments he rang
again for the maid, who reiterated that the child was still asking for
her book. The invalid grew still more restless, and at last sent for
the surgeon, who was still with Ernestine.

"Lederer," he called out upon his entrance, "bleed me! Don't you
remember how much good it did me?"

"Not for worlds, sir!" said Lederer. "I could not do it without a
physician's orders. There seems no reason at all at present for such an
extreme remedy!"

"What do you know about it?" cried Hartwich angrily. "I tell you I know
I need it. There is a perfect hammering going on inside my head. You
must bleed me, or I shall have another stroke!"

"Ah, sir, believe me, you are needlessly alarmed," said the barber.
"Have some compassion upon a poor man like myself, who cannot take upon
himself such a responsibility with a patient of your importance. I
would gladly do it if I could! Have patience, I pray you, until the
Geheimrath comes back!"

"You are a miserable coward!" screamed Hartwich, foaming with rage.

"For Heaven's sake compose yourself, sir," the terrified surgeon
interrupted him; "I will obey you, but I must first go home and fetch
my bandages. Perhaps by the time I get back the Geheimrath will be
here!"

"Then go," muttered Hartwich, who already repented his violence, which
he feared might prove an injury to him. "But first lift me up a little.
Ah! if I could only put my feet out of bed I should certainly feel
easier. Try if you cannot lift them out; take out the lame leg
first--so--that's right--oh, it's hard. 'Tis better to have wooden
legs--they can be unstrapped and taken off--but to have to drag about
everywhere a dead, useless limb is horrible! 'tis a dog's life, and I
care not how soon it is over, but not just yet--I must do my duty
first. Now go, Lederer, and come back soon."

The barber had helped him so that he was sitting upright in bed, with
his lame foot upon a cushion. He looked around the room, and noticed
Ernestine's book upon the table. "What is that?" he asked. Lederer
handed it to him. He turned over the leaves, and his face suddenly
brightened. "That must be the book that Ernestine is asking for--some
one must have given it to her yesterday at the party. Good heavens! now
I understand why the poor little thing crept in here so late last
night; she wanted to read by my lamp! Ah, how dearly she paid for her
innocent pleasure! Go, my good Lederer, and take the book to the child.
Tell Rieka to come and let me know what she says to it, and then you
will get the bandages--will you not?"

"Most certainly, sir, as soon as possible!" said Lederer, and hurried
away with the book.

A clock struck nine. Hartwich sighed profoundly. "Only nine. Heim
cannot come for an hour yet. The lawyers will need time for
preparation. O God--Thou wilt not punish that poor, innocent child so
severely as to let me die before her rights are secured--Thou wilt
not!" He tried in vain to fold his hands, and at last dropped them
wearily upon his crippled knees.

Suddenly he imagined that his right hand also was stiffening. His
incapacity to write could not have resulted merely from want of habit.
He moved his arm up and down to try it--whether in imagination or
reality, it certainly felt heavier. It was not the effect of gout, as
was the case with his left hand; this could only proceed from an
effusion of blood upon the brain. Cold drops of moisture stood upon his
forehead; he tried to wipe them away with his right hand; in vain, he
could not lift it so high. Thus he sat helpless and alone, every limb
crippled. He thought of his child's thin, white hands; how blest he
should be if they could now supply the place of his own to him, wipe
his damp brow and hand him refreshing drink! He thought how forsaken
and alone he sat there awaiting death, and that it was all his own
fault; and again he sobbed convulsively. Then Rieka entered.

"Well, was that the right one?" asked Hartwich.

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Thank Heaven! Did she not mention me?"

"No, sir; she said nothing. She only took the book and kissed it, then
folded it in her arms and went to sleep again."

"If the child does not forgive me before I die, I shall have no rest in
my grave!" moaned Hartwich. "Rieka, I am losing the use of my right arm
too. Look at me. Am I not altered?"

"Oh, no, you always look just as purple!" said Rieka consolingly.

"Give me a mirror and let me see myself!"

Rieka handed him a mirror, and he looked at himself long and anxiously.
"I look fearfully. Can you not hear how indistinct my speech is?"

Rieka put away the mirror. "Oh, your tongue is always heavy when you
have been drinking. Don't be worried about that."

"I have not drank a drop to-day, you insolent girl!" stammered Hartwich
irritated. "Go back instantly, and take good care of the child, or----"

"Yes, sir, I shall do my duty without threats, but I can't mend the
mischief that you have done!" And she slammed the door behind her.

"And I must bear this from an ignorant peasant!" wailed Hartwich. "How
they will abuse me to my child, if she recovers! Oh, oh, I deserve it
all; 'tis wretched,--wretched! But I must be calm. I must not be
excited." Thus he murmured, with trembling lips, exerting all his
energy to repress his excitement, and to force the breath regularly
from his laboring breast.

Again the clock struck--ten this time.

"They must soon be here now!" thought Hartwich. "If I can only keep my
head clear!"

The wretched man in his anguish now exercised his mental faculties in
every way that he could devise, repeating the formula which he had
composed for his will a hundred times, that it might be so stamped upon
his mind as to be forthcoming even in his last moments.

At last steps were heard in the hall.

"It is Lederer with the bandages," he thought, suddenly remembering his
desire to be bled. But there were several people there. It must be the
lawyers. The door opened. "Ah, thank God! thank God!" Hartwich
stammered, and fainted.

"I thought so!" cried the Geheimrath. "If you had only bled him, or at
least remained with him!" he continued to the terrified barber, who
entered at the same time. "Be quick now; give me that case; bring me
some ice from the child's room," he ordered; and, while he spoke the
lancet had done its work, and the dark blood was flowing from the arm.

"Pray be ready, gentlemen," he said as he was bandaging the arm; "I
believe the sick man will come to himself in a few moments. You will
find writing-materials there in the corner."

The gentlemen took their seats, and arranged a table for writing from
the sick man's dictation. The surgeon brought the ice; it was laid upon
Hartwich's head, and, as the Geheimrath had prophesied, he soon came to
himself. He looked around him with astonishment "Am I still living?" he
feebly asked.

"Certainly, certainly," said the Geheimrath, cheerfully; "it was only a
slight attack."

"God of mercy," gasped Hartwich, "Thou art all compassion! My memory is
still perfect. Are the lawyers here?"

One of them arose, and approached the bed.

"We are here, Herr von Hartwich, and await your directions."

"I am still of sound mind,--indeed I am," Hartwich insisted with
childlike eagerness.

"The intention with which you have summoned us would certainly not
indicate the contrary," said the lawyer gravely, signing to his
companion to prepare to write.

"And I declare that this last decision of mine is entirely my own,"
Hartwich continued.

"I am convinced that it is so. I should far rather suppose that your
previous will was a forced one," the official rejoined.

"Will it impair the authenticity of this document that I am unable to
sign it? I cannot, unfortunately, move my hand."

"Not at all," said the lawyer. "These two gentlemen, Herr Geheimrath
Heim and the surgeon Lederer, will have the kindness to affix their
signatures as witnesses, and the instrument will be legally correct. If
you are strong enough to dictate your will, there is nothing now to
prevent your doing so."

"Oh, yes! oh, yes!" gasped Hartwich, as the Geheimrath supported him;
"every moment is precious."

The preliminary sentences were written at Hartwich's request. The
Geheimrath closed the door, and the dying man began to dictate in such
feverish haste that the lawyer was obliged to entreat him to speak more
slowly. Some irregularities in the formula were arranged, and the will
was completed before the glimmering spark of life in the testator was
extinguished. Little Ernestine was made heir to a property of ninety
thousand thalers. The document was read aloud to Hartwich, and the
Geheimrath and Lederer affixed their signatures instead of his own.

"Now I can die!" said the sick man, with the air of a released captive;
and instantly his mental and physical powers failed him.

"Geheimrath!" he faltered, and a strange smile transfigured
his countenance, "lay the will upon my child's bed, as
her--father's--last--farewell--thanks--thanks." And his eyelids closed,
he muttered unintelligibly, and relapsed into unconsciousness.

The Geheimrath nodded to the lawyers, and said, "It was high time!"




                              CHAPTER IV.

                           THE SAD SURVIVORS.


The next day, at about the same hour, Frau Bertha was in her kitchen,
beating whites of eggs for a cake, her round cheeks shaking merrily
with the exercise. She had sent her maid into the garden with Gretchen,
and was supplying the maid's place. She turned the bowl upside down, to
convince herself that the eggs were sufficiently beaten; not a drop
fell,--they were all right. She set them aside with an air of great
satisfaction, and turned to a bag beneath the table, whence issued a
melancholy flapping and cooing. A white dove poked its head out of the
mouth of the bag, and Bertha thrust it back again, securing the opening
more tightly. A pot of water on the fire boiled over with a loud
hissing, and she hastened to roll up her sleeves over her large,
well-formed arms, and lift the heavy vessel from the glowing coals. She
was a beautiful sight, as the glare from the fire illuminated her
massive proportions; as she moved hither and thither, now arranging her
various cooking-utensils, now opening the door beneath the oven, to
thrust in huge pieces of wood, hastily picking up and tossing back the
bits of burning coal that fell out, she might have been Frau Venus, the
coarse Frau Venus of the popular German imagination, fresh from the
infernal regions in the Hoerselberg, who, clad in a kitchen apron, was
here in the likeness of a cook-maid to seduce the calm, cold-blooded
Dr. Gleissert by the magic charms of her cookery. She tossed a net full
of crabs into a pot of cold water, and looked thoughtlessly on at their
slow death over the fire. She never dreamed that just at that moment a
human life was leaving its mortal tenement beneath her roof, and when,
a few minutes later, she was pounding ingredients in her huge mortar,
that the noise she was making was the death-knell of a departing soul.
She did not hear her husband's approach until he stood before her, and
seizing her by the arm, said breathlessly, "Wife, this is our last day
of torment!"

Frau Bertha looked at him with surprise, that was only half joy,
painted upon her heated face. "I have never seen you so delighted
before, except when you were examining those odd fishes at Trieste;
what has happened?"

"Can you not guess?" asked Leuthold.

"Is he dead?"

"He is; he has been dying for the last twenty-four hours."

"Thank Heaven!" said Frau Bertha, folding her plump hands.

"And if I believed in Heaven I should say so too," rejoined Leuthold,
throwing himself upon a kitchen chair. "Only conceive of the joy!
We are wealthy,--independent,--delivered from our ten years'
servitude,--delivered--ah!" He fanned himself with the pocket-handkerchief
that he had just used at the bedside of Hartwich's corpse to dry the
tears that he did not shed.

In spite of her good fortune, Frau Bertha looked uncomfortable. "I am
almost sorry he has gone," she said timidly. "It seems to me a sin to
rejoice so at any one's death,--he might appear to us."

"Don't talk such nonsense; you know I cannot endure it," said Leuthold
angrily. "You behave as if we had killed him. Wishes are neither poison
nor steel; and we are not rejoicing at his death, but at our
inheritance. It is but human."

"Yes, yes," said Bertha, comforted, "you are quite right. If we could
have had the money while he lived, we should not have wanted him to
die; he might have lived for a hundred years for all I would have
cared. It was his own fault that we wished him dead. Why did he keep us
so pinched?"

Leuthold nodded approvingly. "I see you are willing to listen to
reason; now have the kindness to come downstairs with me and pay the
proper respect to the body."

"What must I do that for?" asked Bertha, alarmed.

"Because it is becoming! I have instructed you sufficiently upon this
point; you know my wishes--come!"

These words, that cut like a knife in their utterance, made opposition
useless. Bertha took her casseroles from the fire, looked after the
doves in the bag, and followed her husband down stairs. On the way she
asked him, "What shall I say when we get there?"

"Not much," said Leuthold dryly. "There is not much to be said in such
stiff, silent society,--a couple of oh's and ah's will suffice; it is
very graceful in a woman to fall upon her knees by the bedside; but if
you should attempt it, pray restrain your usual impetuosity, or the
repose even of the dead might be disturbed."

"You are a fearful man," whispered Bertha. "I am actually afraid of
you. Will you make such joking speeches when I die?"

"I shall not outlive you, my good Bertha," said Leuthold, plaintively.
"If I should, be assured I will mourn for you as the nurseling for his
nurse!"

Frau Bertha looked doubtfully at her husband. She scarcely knew what to
make of this tender asseveration, and she said nothing. They had
reached the door of Hartwich's apartment.

"Where is your handkerchief--your pocket-handkerchief?" Leuthold asked
softly. Bertha sought it in vain; she had forgotten it. "How
thoughtless," whispered Leuthold, "to forget your handkerchief under
such circumstances!"

"Then give me yours," said Bertha.

"You fool! I want it for myself. Take your apron; put that up to your
eyes--so!" With these words he opened the door and entered slowly,
pushing Bertha before him. Hartwich lay extended upon the bed, his face
so changed that Bertha was glad to be able to hide her eyes in her
apron. Leuthold stood beside her, a picture of dignified manly grief;
his bearing impressed the bystanders; the surgeon, the men- and
maid-servants, who were all present, were convinced that Herr Gleissert
had really loved his step-brother, and that it was rank injustice to
accuse him of heartlessness. After a few moments, he laid his hand
gently upon his wife's shoulder, but its stern pressure reminded her
that she was to fall upon her knees. She sank down as carefully as she
could, and with her broad back and bending head was a beautiful and
moving image of woe. After awhile he bent over her and said gently,
"Come, my child, do not be so agitated; our tears cannot bring him back
to life--come!" Then he raised her, leaned her head upon his breast to
conceal her face, and conducted her from the room. The others looked
after them with amazement.

"I cannot understand it," said the surgeon. "Every one knows that the
woman never could endure Herr von Hartwich, and yet now she seems
almost dead with grief!"

"She isn't really sorry," growled a groom; "it's all sham!"

"Yes, yes," Rieka added, "she didn't shed a tear,--not a single tear,
for all she rubbed her eyes so with her apron!"

"That's true,--she is right," murmured the group; "neither he nor she
shed a single tear. Well, there's a pair of them. Do they suppose we
are so stupid as not to see how glad they are that the master is dead?
'Tis a pity that the money will not fall into better hands."

Then they separated, and went indifferently about their work.

"That was not so bad," said Leuthold, when he had reached his own room
with Bertha; "but still you certainly have no genius for the stage."

"You ought to be glad that I can never play a part before you," she
said, shaking herself as if to shake off the disagreeable impression of
what she had seen like dust from her clothes.

In the mean time the maid had brought the child in from the garden, and
had laid the table.

"We will have some champagne to-day," said Leuthold, taking down the
keys of the cellar. "We need something to support us under such
exciting circumstances. Send Lena for some ice." And he left the room.

Frau Bertha sent the girl for ice, and said to herself with
complacency, "That ice-house was the best thing I ever planned."

The little girl, who was too fat and chubby to move very steadily, had
crept under the table, and now, catching hold of the corner of the
table-cloth, tried to lift herself by it, thereby pulling down a couple
of plates and knives upon the floor. Bertha caught up the screaming
child, gave it two or three hard slaps, saying, "Now you know what you
are crying for," and then carried it to and fro to quiet it, well
knowing that her strict husband would not endure any noise. Gretchen
ceased crying just as her father entered with the champagne. Lena
brought the ice, and the bottles were arranged in it. When the husband
and wife were seated at table, Bertha had the fragments of the broken
plates cleared away. "Oh, heavens!" she muttered, "nothing but bad
signs. If our fortune should be destroyed like that china!"

"You unmitigated fool!" scolded her husband; "if everything that we
desire were only as secure as our legally devised inheritance,
Gretchen's future husband would be now tumbling about in a royal
nursery, and there would be a French cook in our kitchen."

"Oh, then," Bertha interrupted him with irritation, "you are not
satisfied with my cooking,--you want a Frenchman."

"Only a Frenchman could supply your place," replied her husband, quite
ready to practise himself in the delicate flattery which he intended to
make use of in future towards ladies in aristocratic circles. He kissed
her hand and said, "I would not have these rosy fingers any longer
degraded by contact with the rude utensils of cookery. Let all that be
left to the hard, rough hands of some skilful gastronome."

Frau Bertha stared at him in surprise.

"Why, can gastronomes cook?"

"Most certainly,--what else should they do?"

"I thought they looked at the stars through glasses!"

Leuthold clasped his hands in dismay, and cast a look towards heaven.
"Good heavens! when I think of your making such a speech among our
future friends, I am so profoundly humiliated that I could almost
determine to make over my property to some religious institution--some
monastery--and enroll myself among its members. Woman, woman, must I
teach you the difference between gastronomy, the science of cookery,
and astronomy, the science of the stars?"

"Gastronomy or astronomy!" said Bertha pettishly, as she ladled out the
soup, "it is a great deal better for me to understand cooking than the
long names you call it. Would you have liked, during all the ten years
that you were too poor to keep a regular cook, to have a wife who could
talk Latin with you, but whose dinners a dog could not have eaten?"

"No, no, indeed, my dear Bertha!" said her husband with a shudder; "but
the two can be united if you try. I do not ask you either to study
Greek and Latin, or to resign your masterly supervision of our kitchen
department; but you have hitherto performed many little household
offices, that could as well have been left to the servant, because you
had no pleasanter way of occupying your time. This must be otherwise
now; hitherto you have had the excuse of our straitened circumstances
that have compelled you sometimes to discharge a servant's duties. Now
there will be no such excuse; for you will have a suitable household in
town, and time to cultivate your mind and render yourself a worthy
member of the society to which I shall introduce you."

Bertha in her impatience let her spoon fall into the soup-plate, and
then wreaked her irritation upon the soup, which she poured hastily
back into the tureen.

"If you should do such a thing as that before strangers," said her
husband angrily, "you would stamp yourself as a person of no
refinement, and I should be disgraced."

Bertha brought her hand down upon the table so heavily that the glasses
rang again. "This is really too much! Can I no longer eat as I please?
As long as you were poor, and I spent my little all in procuring
delicacies for you, you found me all very well, and had plenty of fine
words for me; but now, that you are rich and I have nothing left, I am
not good enough for you, and you take quite another tone with me.
Heaven help me! There is no more pleasure in store for me. I really
believe you would send me out of the house if I should not succeed in
pleasing you. Oh, if I had only known!"

She was silent, because Lena appeared with the roast; but a couple of
large tears dropped into the soup-plate which she handed to the
servant.

"What exaggerated nonsense!" said Leuthold at last. "Be good enough to
carve the meat,--I am hungry. You know I am a respectable man,--slow to
adopt harsh measures if they can be avoided. I hope you will not force
me to them by stubborn conduct. You will recognize and fulfil the
duties which our wealth imposes upon us."

"Duties, duties? I thought that when I was rich I could begin really to
enjoy life and do as I pleased; but instead of that I must wear a
double face and worry about everything. It is just as if you gave me a
new sofa in the place of the old one, but forbade me to lie down upon
it for fear of injuring the cover. Of course I should long for the old
one, upon which I could stretch myself in comfort whenever I chose."

Leuthold smiled. "You are not forbidden to lie down upon the new sofa.
I only ask you to take off your muddy boots when you do so. Do you
understand?"

Bertha was so far consoled that she applied herself to devouring the
food upon her plate in silence. Her husband regarded her with a strange
mixture of humour and discontent.

"You must at least learn to hold your fork in your left hand," he said
at last.

"Mercy!" exclaimed Bertha again. "What matter is it about such a
trifle?"

"A great deal of matter, my dear. Such trifles show refinement, just as
the mercury in the thermometer shows the degree of heat and cold. If
you lay your knife aside and clutch your fork in your right hand like a
pitchfork, every one of any culture will say, 'That woman is a person
of no refinement. She has not been used to good society.' I grant it is
insignificant in itself and ridiculous to every thinking man; but it
serves a certain purpose. Such forms are marks of distinction between
cultivated and uncultivated people. Just because they are so
insignificant the uninitiated never pay any heed to them. But, although
clad in purple and fine linen, ignorance of such trifles betrays the
parvenu. Those who desire, like yourself, to enter circles to which
they do not belong by birth, must find out all their conventional
secrets, in order not to be disgraced."

"Oh, what a moral discourse!" sighed Bertha. "I have had enough for
to-day. You are a thoroughly heartless man, and were kind to me only as
long as you needed me. I must bear what comes, for I am poor and
helpless since I broke with my father,--but you have tired me out, I
assure you."

"And if this fatigue were an overpowering sensation, you would separate
yourself from me; but since you are fond of the rest that I can provide
you, there will be an enduring bond between us. I shall magnanimously
treat you as my wife as long as you give me no legal ground for
divorce; therefore, be composed; your future lot is a thousand times
more brilliant than you had any right to expect."

Bertha arose, and was about to reply, but her husband commanded silence
by so imperious a gesture that she swallowed down her anger and
hastened from the room, sobbing violently. In the kitchen the maid was
just taking the cake that she had made from the oven. It was
successful--it was most beautiful! The servant placed it near the open
window to cool. Bertha contemplated it mournfully. How much pains she
had taken! how stiff the eggs had been beaten! how well it had risen!
and no one cared anything about it! Did her cross husband deserve that
she should prepare such a delicacy for him? Should he devour this
masterpiece? Yet there it was,--so round and high, so brown and
fragrant, that she gradually dried her tears, and was filled with more
agreeable sensations and a pardonable pride. No one except herself
possessed the receipt for this cake. No one else could make it. She
thought with rapture of the delight of those who should in future
partake of it at her table,--of the consideration that she should enjoy
on account of it; and, thinking thus, her good humour returned, and she
determined not to hide her light under a bushel, and punish her husband
by withholding the cake from him, but to parade it before him; he
should see what a woman he had treated so unkindly could do. When he
tasted this cake he would repent his harshness! She took the plate and
carried it on high into the dining-room, where she placed it before her
husband with exultation.

"Yes, that is really beautiful," he said approvingly, looking first at
the round, beautiful cake, and then at the plump, pretty baker; and his
approbation exalted Bertha to the highest pitch of satisfaction, so
that she felt morally justified in asking for a glass of champagne. Her
husband removed the cork without allowing it to snap and disturb the
decorum of the house of mourning, and then poured out a sparkling
bumper for her.

"Come," she said, "we will clink glasses, and drink to the welfare of
the good Hartwich, who has made us rich!"

"Yes, now that he is dead, may he live forever," said Leuthold smiling,
and gently touching his wife's glass with his own,--"live forever in
that heaven where I trust he may experience all the delight that his
wealth will afford us here on earth."

They emptied their glasses, and Bertha ran into the adjoining room,
where Gretchen was taking her noonday nap. She snatched the sleeping
child from the bed, shook it, and cried, "Come, wake up, and you shall
have some cake!"

The little thing, interrupted in its nap, was frightened and began to
scream, refusing to be quieted until her father filled her mouth with
the promised delicacy and dandled her in his arms.

"You do not even understand how to take care of your own child,"
murmured Leuthold. "What will you do when our niece comes to us?"

"What!" cried Bertha, "must I have the care of the disagreeable
creature?"

"She will come to me--yes."

"But we will send her to boarding-school--you promised me!"

"If Ernestine recovers, as she may do under old Heim's care, she will
be too weak for months to be sent among strangers without incurring the
reproach of the world. You will be obliged, therefore, to submit to
having her with us until such time as we can be rid of her decently. I
assure you she shall stay no longer than is absolutely necessary. And
now pray be quiet, and do not embitter this day by complaints."

Frau Bertha looked utterly discomfited. She determined that, at all
events, Ernestine should never partake of the delicacies which she
alone knew how to prepare. Coarse natures always seek for a scape-goat
upon whom to wreak their irritation; and, as she did not dare to make
her husband serve this purpose, her choice fell upon Ernestine.

Leuthold, who was not used to see his wife lost in a reverie, softly
touched her shoulder. "Come; it really looks almost as if you were
thinking of something," he said dryly.

"Yes; I am thinking of something," she replied significantly. "I am
thinking of the dog's life I shall lead as long as that sickly, ailing
brat is under our roof, and no one will reward me for my pains."

She stopped, for Gretchen had grown restless, and required all her
attention, and Leuthold evidently refused to give any heed to her
complaints, but, as dinner was over, folded his napkin and rose from
the table. "I must write the notice of his death--it is high time it
were attended to," he said, while he washed his hands in the adjoining
room. "Sew a piece of crape around my hat." He re-entered the room, and
sat down at his writing-table. Bertha placed a candle and a cup of
_cafe noir_ upon it. He lighted a cigar, which he smoked as he
wrote, sipping his coffee comfortably from time to time. The servant
removed the dinner-table; Gretchen amused herself on the floor with
some paper, which she tore into a thousand fragments, to make a mimic
snow-storm; and Bertha tried on before the mirror several articles of
mourning-apparel, which she had had in readiness for some time. She was
delighted, for black was very becoming to her.

Peace and comfort reigned in the apartment. Leuthold emptied his cup
and laid aside his pen. "There--that is most touching and suitable.
Read it." He handed Bertha what he had, written, and she read:

"It has pleased Almighty God to release our beloved father, brother,
and brother-in-law, Herr Carl Emil von Hartwich, landholder and
manufacturer, from his protracted sufferings, and to transport him to a
better world. He died this day, at twelve M. Those who were acquainted
with the deceased, and with his active benevolence, will know how
profound must be our sorrow, and accord us their sympathy.

                                         "The Sad Survivors.

"Unkenbeim, 24 July, 18--."




                               CHAPTER V.

                              UNDECEIVED.


Ernestine was still lying motionless in Frau Gedike's huge bed, and by
her side sat a little nurse scarcely three feet high, swinging her
short legs, and thinking how charming it must be to lie in such a great
big bed, just like a grown person, and what a pity it was that poor
Ernestine slept so much, that she could not enjoy the pleasure. Now and
then she turned her fair head round towards the window behind her,
through the white curtains of which she could see a dark procession
moving away from the house towards the village. When it had disappeared
from sight, she gave a little sigh, and swung her feet rather more
violently than before,--although she sat very upright, with great
dignity of demeanour, for she was entirely conscious of the weighty
responsibility of her post. She had been intrusted with the charge of
watching Ernestine while the servants were attending the funeral
services performed over Bartwich's corpse. When they were concluded,
and the funeral procession had left the house, Rieka had begged the
little child to keep her place until the gentlemen returned from the
church-yard, in order that the maid might perform certain necessary
household duties. Angelika--for she it was--undertook the charge with
delight. She had given her uncle Neuenstein, who had determined to pay
the last honours to Hartwich's remains, no peace until he consented to
take her to Ernestine. True, she soon acknowledged to herself that she
had never, in her whole long life of eight years, seen any place so
tiresome as this quiet room, where nothing was heard but the buzzing of
a couple of flies around a spoon in which a drop or two of Ernestine's
medicine had been left; but she was not discontented; she sat as still
as a mouse, so that she might not disturb the invalid, and did not even
venture to look at her, for she had heard that sleepers could be
awakened by a look. Only now and then she cast a wistful glance at the
pretty book that was clasped tight in Ernestine's embrace. Suddenly the
sick child muttered, "I am lying turned round the wrong way in bed."
Angelika scrambled down in alarm from her high seat, and ran to the
door and cried, "Rieka, Ernestine is saying something!"

The maid hurried in, and Ernestine moved uneasily, and insisted that
she was lying with her head towards the foot of the bed. At last Rieka
remembered that Ernestine's crib had been placed against the opposite
wall, and suspected that she missed the old position. Rightly judging
this to be a favourable sign, she quickly and carefully turned the
child around in the bed; and when Ernestine stretched out her hand and
encountered the wall, where she had been accustomed to find it, she
seemed satisfied, and apparently fell asleep again. Then Rieka left the
room to finish her work; but, after a few moments, Ernestine opened her
eyes, in which for the first time shone the light of intelligence, and
looked around. "Angelika!" she said in amazement, and then stared
around the room. "Why, this is Frau Gedike's room! and what a large,
soft bed!"

"Yes, indeed," Angelika delightedly replied. "Isn't it comfortable? Ah,
you poor dear Ernestine, are you beginning to grow a little better? Is
your head mended again?"

Ernestine put up her hand to her bandaged head. "What is this?"

"You broke your head. Oh, it was terrible, I know from my
dolls,--although it doesn't hurt them, and you can put on new heads;
but they couldn't do that for you, and they said you must die; but you
haven't died!"

"Oh, yes," said Ernestine, recollecting herself; "now I remember; last
night my father struck me and threw me down. Yes, it hurt very much!"

"It was not last night, it was several days ago; but you slept the
whole time, and didn't you know that they cut off your hair?" asked
Angelika, running to the wardrobe and producing a thick bunch of long
black hair. "Look, here it is,--there is some blood on it still, but,
if you will only give it to me, I will wash it and make my large
walking doll a splendid wig of it. Do, do give it to me, you can't make
it grow on your head again."

"I'll give it to you willingly," said Ernestine; "but first ask Frau
Gedike whether you may keep it."

"Oh, she is not here any more,--Uncle Heim sent her away!" replied
Angelika, drawing the dark strands slowly through her fingers.

"Then ask my father."

This answer utterly discomfited Angelika. "I cannot ask your father,"
she said in a disappointed tone, putting the hair away regretfully. "He
is dead! They put him in the hearse a little while ago,--I saw them."

"Oh," said Ernestine, startled, "is he dead? Why, why did he die just
now?"

"I think because he was so angry with you," said Angelika with an air
of great wisdom. "Don't you know when I am naughty mamma shuts me up in
a dark room? and, because your father was a great deal naughtier than
I, God has shut him up in a dark hole in the ground, and he must stay
there always."

"Ah, for my sake, the dear God should not have done that, for my sake!"
said Ernestine, bursting into tears. "Now I have no father any more; I
have nobody; I am all alone in the world! My poor father! it is all my
fault that he is put into the narrow grave, where the worms will eat
him and there will be nothing left of him but bones. Oh, how horrible!
how horrible! I saw a skeleton once in a picture, and my poor, poor
father will look just like that!" And she wrung her thin hands and
writhed about in the bed, moaning loudly.

Angelika was in despair at the mischief she had done. She had quite
forgotten that she had been forbidden, if Ernestine should awake, to
speak to her of her father. In the greatest distress she walked to and
fro beside the high bed, and at last brought a tall stool, from which,
when she had mounted it, she could reach Ernestine. She kissed her, she
stroked her cheeks, and laid her chubby hand upon her mouth to silence
her, but in vain. At last she hit upon the idea of showing her the book
that lay beside her. She opened it at a picture and held it up before
her, saying, "Look, dear Ernestine, only look at your beautiful book!"
The sick child instantly brushed the tears from her eyes when she saw
the picture.

"The swan!" she cried, "the swan! that is the story of the Ugly
Duckling!" She hastily took the book out of Angelika's hands and turned
over the leaves. Gradually the fairy figures of the snow-queen, the
little mermaid, and the rest, obliterated the horrible image of her
dead father, and his narrow grave faded away to give place to the
shining garden of Paradise, and the clear, broad sea with the fairy
palaces beneath its crystal waves. Her sobs grew fainter and fainter,
and at last a smile played around her lips when she came to the story
of the dryad "Elder Blossom."

"Now I know what a dryad is," she said. "I am glad, I am very glad!"

"What is it that makes you so glad?"

"That a dryad is nothing bad, for--don't you know?--_he_ called me
that. I thought it was to mock me, and it hurt me, but it was not so."

"He? who?"

"I don't know his name, your brother, who gave me the book."

"Johannes?" laughed Angelika. "Do you like him?"

"Yes, oh, yes, he is so handsome and good, just like the prince in the
Little Mermaid." With these words a light shone in the child's dark
eyes. "I would far rather have turned into foam than done anything to
hurt him, if I had been the mermaid."

"That is charming! that is splendid!" Angelika declared with delight;
"we both love him! He is such a dear brother. It is a pity he has gone
away. If he were at home he would come and play with you; oh, he plays
so finely!"

"Has he gone away?" asked Ernestine sadly.

"Yes, he has gone to Paris to get me a wax doll; only think!--one that
can call 'Papa' and 'Mamma.'"

"Oh, there cannot be such dolls!" said Ernestine with a troubled look.

"Indeed there are, and when she comes I will show her to you. Remember
the doll in 'Ole Luckoie;' she could speak, and had a fine wedding."

"But that isn't a true story," said Ernestine wisely, putting her hand
to her head, which was beginning to ache badly.

"Only think what a charming thing it is to have a wedding," Angelika
ran on. "I once went to a real wedding, and it was almost finer than
the one in the story. Oh, the bride has a lovely time! Why, she sits
just in the middle of the table, and in front of her is a great, tall
cake, with a little house on top of it and a little man inside, a
little bit of a man, with a bow and arrows, but no clothes on at all.
She has the biggest piece of cake, and they put the dear little man
upon her plate, and she is helped first to everything. I was really
vexed with my cousin for eating hardly anything. And only think, last
of all came ice-cream doves sitting in a nest made of sugar, upon eggs
of marchpane! They looked so natural that I was too sorry when my
cousin cut off one of their heads; I could have cried, and I determined
not to eat any of it, but by the time it came to me, every one could
see that it was not a real dove, for it was all melting away, and you
had to eat it with a spoon. And there were quantities of champagne, and
all the gentlemen made long speeches to the bride, and you had to sit
perfectly still and not rattle your spoon at all while they were
talking, but when they had done you could scream as loud as you
pleased, and clatter your glasses, and the more noise you made the
better; and all were pleased and kissed one another; only my cousin sat
there so stupidly and cried. I wouldn't have cried when everything was
done to please me. And I'll tell you what, when my brother comes back
he must bring you a boy doll with a hat and waistcoat, and then he
shall marry my doll. He will come in six months, but that must be a
long time; for mamma cried when he went away. Perhaps we shall be grown
up by then, and can make our dolls' clothes ourselves. That would be
lovely."

"But we shall not be grown up in six months," said Ernestine. "First
winter must come, and then summer again, and then winter and summer
again, before we are grown up!"

"That is terribly long," cried Angelika. "I don't see how we can wait
so long."

"And when we are grown up we cannot play with dolls. Then I shall buy
myself a telescope like Uncle Leuthold's, and always be looking into
the moon, for I like it better than anything."

"Into the moon? Have you ever looked into the moon?" asked Angelika in
amazement.

"Indeed I have."

"How does it look there?"

"Oh, beautiful, most beautiful! It shines and gleams so silvery, and it
is so calm and quiet, and there are mountains and valleys there just
like ours, only they are not coloured, they are just pure light!"

"Did you see the man in the moon?"

"No, I didn't see him; Uncle Leuthold said there are no people in the
moon; but I don't believe him. They are only so far off that we can't
see them. And they must be much happier and better than we are here;
I'm sure they never beat children; and who knows whether perhaps the
dear God himself does not live there? If I could fly, I would fly up
there!" And she gazed upward with beaming eyes, and a long sigh escaped
from her little breast.

"No, dear Ernestine, you must not fly away; no one can tell that the
moon is as lovely near to, as it is so far off. And it is very nice
here, too, for when you grow up you can be either a mamma or an aunt,
and then no one can do anything to you. No one ever strikes my aunt or
my mamma--no one!"

But Ernestine was no longer conscious of the child's prattle; her eyes
closed, her beloved book dropped from her hands; Ole Luckoie, the
gentle Northern god of slumber, had arisen from its pages. He had
poured balm into her painful wound, and extended his canopy, with its
thousands of gay pictures, over her soul.

Angelika looked at her for awhile, and then asked, "Are you asleep
again?" and, upon receiving no answer, she was quite content, and got
softly down from the high stool, and seated herself again upon her
chair with the grave air of a sentinel. At last Heim, with Herr
Neuenstein, came home from the funeral, and the two gentlemen entered
the apartment together.

"She has been talking with me," Angelika announced.

"What! has she come to herself?" asked the Geheimrath in pleased
surprise.

"Oh, yes,--we talked about a great many things--and then she went to
sleep again."

The Geheimrath rubbed his hands.--"That's good! Did she seem to be
perfectly sensible?"

"Oh, yes; she was perfectly sensible," Angelika assured him.

"What a pity that I was not here! Now I hope we shall bring her
through," said the Geheimrath to Herr Neuenstein; but the latter stood
looking at the corpse-like figure of the sleeping child, and shook his
head.

"I see," continued the physician, "that it seems impossible to you, and
yet I believe she will recover. Who that sees such a faded blossom
lying there would suspect the wonderful recuperative energy hidden
within it? And I tell you this child possesses an immense amount of
vitality, or she would have succumbed to such brutal treatment as she
has received. She will recover; believe me, she will recover."

"I should rejoice indeed to think that your exertions will not prove in
vain. And you really wish to take her with you?"

"Yes, if her hypocritical uncle will let her go, I will deliver her
from his claws, and educate her as is best for her health and becoming
to her position as an heiress."

"You are a genuine philanthropist, Geheimrath."

"Yes, I am a philanthropist; but there is small merit in that. Some
people love puppies and kittens, others cultivate flowers with
enthusiasm,--I love to educate and train human beings. Whenever a pair
of melancholy eyes stare out at me from a child's face, I want to stick
the child in my herbarium like a rare flower. Yes, if it only cost as
little to cultivate children as plants, I should have had a human
hot-house long ago. But the taste is so confoundedly expensive."

"Yes, we all know that you spend your whole income in such good works.
You might have been a millionaire long ago, if it had not been for your
lavish generosity."

"What would you have? One man wastes his money upon one whim, and
another on another. This happens to be my whim, and I spend just as
much upon it as I can conscientiously in the interest of my adopted
son, who stands nearest my heart. But now do me the kindness to leave
the room, for our talk is disturbing the child's sleep. I will stay
here for an hour and watch her."

"Come, Angelika," said Neuenstein: "Uncle Heim is very cross
to-day,--let us go home." He took the child's hand, and nodded
affectionately to Heim. "Shall I send the carriage for you?"

"No, I thank you; I must return to the capital; the king has commanded
my attendance this afternoon. But I shall be here again to-morrow."

"Adieu, dear uncle," said little Angelika, standing on tiptoe, and
holding up her rosy lips to be kissed. "You won't be cross to me, will
you?" she asked, nestling her fair curls among his gray locks as he
bent down to her; "I have been so good!" And then she went softly out
with Herr Neuenstein.

When Heim was alone, he sat down by the bedside, and silently
contemplated the sleeping child. "I'll wager," he thought, "that she
will be very beautiful one of these days. Her face is older than her
years, and that is always ugly in a child, but when her age accords
with the earnestness of that brow, and her features lose their
sharpness under more kindly treatment, it will be a magnificent head.
To think of having such a child and beating it half to death! Such a
child!"

Something like a tear glistened in the old man's eyes, and he softly
took a pinch of snuff to compose himself, for these thoughts filled him
with the pain of an old wound, and well-nigh overcame him. But the
pinch was of no avail. He gazed upon the treasure before him, which had
fallen to one utterly unworthy such a gift, who had neglected and
despised it, and he thought what joy its possession would have given
him. And he remembered that such joy might have been his, had his heart
not clung unalterably to one who was not destined for him. Now it was
too late; and the past, in which he might have sown the harvest of love
that he longed to reap, was irrevocable. The passion that had so long
filled his heart was conquered and dead; but the longing for affection,
that is stronger than passion, still lived on in the old man's breast.
"When a man's wife dies and leaves him," he thought, "she lives again
in her children; but he who has neither wife nor child is doubly poor."
He had watched over many human lives, but not one could he call his
own; he had preserved the lives of many, he had given life to none. He
had seen the bitterest woes soothed by affection, and he should die
without leaving one child behind to mourn his loss. And, lost in such
thoughts, it seemed to him that he was actually lying upon his
death-bed, and that he felt a soft arm stealing around his neck, and
heard a sweet, caressing voice sob out, "Father."

It was Ole Luckoie who had granted him this bitter-sweet dream by
Ernestine's bedside; it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and
left nothing behind but a tear on the old man's furrowed cheek.

Then the latch of the door began to tremble, as though a carriage were
driving by, and the heavy footsteps that caused the noise approached
the apartment. Before the Geheimrath could prevent it, the door was
flung open, and Bertha's colossal figure appeared upon the threshold.
She was dressed in a new shining black silk, and the stiff cambric
lining rustled so loudly as she approached the bed that the child
started up frightened, and the Geheimrath could not suppress an
exclamation.

"Good-morning, Herr Geheimrath; good-morning, Tina," she said with a
nod. "So, Tina, you're alive still, I see. There was no need of such a
great fuss about you, after all."

Ernestine, at this rude greeting, flung herself to the farther side of
the bed, and cried, "Oh, send my aunt away!--I do not want to see her.
I will not!"

The Geheimrath politely offered his arm to the intruder and conducted
her from the room without a word. Bertha, amazed, asked, "Why, what
have I done? Can't I see my niece?"

"If you yourself do not understand, madam, that this frail life needs
to be treated with the greatest possible tenderness, I, a physician,
must tell you that it will be your fault if my care of the child should
prove of no avail and she should die in spite of it. I must therefore
entreat you either to discontinue your visits to the child, or to
address her more gently."

"Why, goodness gracious!" cried Bertha, "I was only in jest. Mercy on
me! you may wrap her up in cotton-wool, for all I care."

The Geheimrath gave an involuntary sigh. "Poor child," he thought, "to
be in danger of falling into such hands!"

Suddenly the hall-door was opened, and a face appeared, so ashy pale,
so livid, that Bertha started in terror. It was Leuthold; but he was
hardly to be recognized. When he perceived the Geheimrath, he saluted
him with his usual courtesy, then, extending his hand to Bertha, said
in a low voice, "My dear Bertha, be kind enough to come up-stairs with
me."

She followed him in the greatest trepidation, for she had never before
beheld him thus; and on the joyful day of Hartwich's funeral, too! What
could have happened? He took her hand and conducted her up the
staircase, his fingers were as cold and clammy as those of a corpse.
She almost shuddered as they walked along together in such solemn
silence.

They reached the door of their own apartment. Leuthold entered, dragged
his wife in after him, closed the door, and, before she was aware of
what he was doing, she felt the icy hand around her throat like an iron
band.

"Shall I strangle you?" he gasped, with eyes like a serpent's when it
is wound around its victim.

"Merciful Heaven!" shrieked Bertha, falling upon her knees to extricate
herself. The cold hand grasped her throat still more tightly.

"Utter one sound that the servants can hear, and I will throttle you!"
hissed Leuthold. "Be quiet! or----" Bertha ceased struggling, and
almost lost her consciousness. He then released her and pushed her down
upon the sofa, where she sat utterly astounded.

He put his hand to his head, and then whispered, almost inaudibly, as
though speaking with the greatest difficulty, "On the day of
Ernestine's fall, when Heim came to the house, do you remember that I
strictly enjoined it upon you to observe narrowly whatever occurred in
the house?"

"Yes," stammered the frightened woman.

"Did you do it?"

No answer.

"You did not do it."

"I was so afraid of Hartwich that I went up-stairs again," Bertha
confessed with hesitation.

"And so,--" Leuthold's chest heaved, his breath came heavily, and he
clenched his hands convulsively, "and so it is your fault that Hartwich
has disinherited us and left all his property to Ernestine." His face
grew still paler, his slender figure tottered, he grasped at a chair
for support, and fell fainting upon the ground.

"Good God!" shrieked Bertha, shaking the prostrate man violently, "the
whole property? tell me, the whole property? Oh, you miserable man,
what folly to fall into such spasms! Speak, and tell me whether we have
nothing at all, or what we have!"

Leuthold slowly raised his head. Bertha carried, more than supported,
him to the sofa. She brought some eau-de-cologne and poured it over his
head so that it ran into his eyes. He uttered an exclamation of pain,
and tried to wipe away the burning fluid from his eyes. "Are you trying
to deprive me of my eyesight?" he groaned, and, when the pain was
relieved, he sat in a dejected attitude, staring into vacancy.

"For mercy's sake, speak!" cried Bertha. "You can, at least, open your
mouth. No legacy? Not an annuity?"

Leuthold looked at his unfeeling wife with an expression that, in spite
of herself, drove the blood to her cheeks. There was something
indescribable in the look,--a mixture of the pity and contempt with
which one contemplates the body of a suicide.

"An annuity of six hundred thalers," he murmured, and covered his eyes
with his hand, as if to shut out everything around him while he
collected his scattered senses.

"Too much to die upon, and too little to live upon!" moaned Bertha,
and, bursting into tears, she threw herself upon a chair in the
farthest corner of the room. Leuthold sat motionless for a long time,
his face hidden in his hands; he scarcely seemed to breathe. He
appeared to need all his physical strength to assist him to endure the
mental agony which was overpowering him,--to have no strength left to
stir a limb. The man of feeling tries to master his unhappiness by
raging and lamenting,--he combats his agony by physical exertion,--he
rushes hither and thither, beats his head against the wall, wrings his
hands, and lessens his woe in a degree by a certain amount of muscular
activity. The man of intellect struggles mentally, and stands in need
of entire physical repose. Such a man as Leuthold could only for a
moment be excited to violence against the hated cause of his
misfortune; he soon regained his exterior composure, and his misery
became an intellectual labour, which might produce loss of reason, and
was never-ceasing.

He sat lost in a profound reverie. Now and then, like lightning across
a cloud, some idea of help in his misery flashed across his brain, but
it vanished as soon as it appeared, leaving each time a blacker night
in his soul.

"The sacrifice of ten long years gone for nothing!" he said at last in
stifled accents. "My hair is bleached before its time with the slavery
to which I have submitted with this goal in view, and now the prize is
snatched from me just as it seemed within my reach. Again I must bow my
neck to the yoke, and, with a mind fitted to appropriate to itself the
most precious treasures of science, toil for my bread! I have wasted
the best years of my life, that I may now begin all over again--an old
man. It was indeed a losing game! When my powers began to fail me, I
comforted myself with hopes of a near release; but now what can sustain
me when that hope has deserted me? No release in future,--nothing but a
never-ending struggle for daily sustenance! Oh----!"

With a long-drawn sigh of mortal agony, the tortured roan buried his
face in the cushion of the sofa, and another long silence ensued,
broken only by Bertha's loud sobbing.

At last she could endure the silence no longer. "What is to be done
now?" she asked half sorrowfully, half defiantly.

"Let me alone," said Leuthold. "Leave me--you see how I am suffering
and struggling!"

"How did you know about the matter?" she insisted.

"That fellow Lederer whispered it to me on returning from the funeral.
He signed the will as a witness. We were separated in the crowd, and I
could not even ask him whether I was left guardian or not. If I were
only guardian----" He ceased, and sunk again into a profound reverie.

There was a slight noise in the adjoining room, and a lovely, smiling
child's face looked in, and a clear, musical voice cried, "Peep!" At
the sound Leuthold turned his head and looked with strange emotion
towards the place where his daughter was standing. The little girl
planted herself firmly upon her feet, and, after a couple of futile
attempts, managed, to her own great delight, to cross the high
threshold. This difficulty surmounted, she tripped gleefully across to
her mother, who sat nearest the door; but upon receiving a rude repulse
from her--a repulse that almost threw her down--she determined to
pursue her journey as far as her father. To insure her swifter
progress, she betook herself to all fours, and, when she reached her
goal, climbed up by her father's knees and smiled into his face.
Leuthold gazed for a few moments into her round, innocent eyes; his own
grew dim; he took the child in his arms and whispered, as he clasped
her to his breast, "Poor child!" His breath came quick--he clasped her
tighter and tighter in his arms, until suddenly a burst of tears
relieved his overburdened soul. The father's heart was filled for once
with pure human emotion.

Gretchen tried to wipe his eyes with her little apron, and patted his
cheeks with her chubby hands.

There is a wonderful power in the touch of a child's soft, pure hand,
soothing a wildly-beating heart and strengthening a soul sickened by
hope deferred. It seemed to Leuthold as if the wounds that had
tormented him were healed by that gentle touch. He kissed the rosy
little palms again and again. He would labour with all his might for
this child--she should have a brilliant future at any cost. He arose,
and, putting her gently down on the carpet, walked slowly to and fro
with folded arms, revolving in his busy brain a thousand plans for the
future. His thoughts were rudely disturbed by Bertha, who, for want of
any other object, wreaked her ill humour upon Gretchen. The child had
got hold of an embroidered footstool, and was engaged in the delightful
occupation of picking off the bugles and pearls fastened upon the
fringe. Bertha snatched it away, and was slapping the little hands
violently, when suddenly Leuthold seized her arm and held it in a firm
grasp, while anger flashed in his eyes; and his words, his bearing, his
whole manner, filled her with terror as he began: "Your nature is so
coarse that you cannot even appreciate the promptings of maternal
instinct. Had you possessed one atom of feminine feeling, you would
have seen what a comfort the child is to me, and would have lavished
tenderness upon her, instead of maltreating her. But of what
consequence are my sorrows to you? When I staggered and fell to the
ground beneath the weight of my misery, you thought only of yourself;
your gentlest word to me was 'miserable man.' Let me tell you, however,
that the weakness of an ailing man is not so repulsive as the rude
strength of a coarse woman. Therefore, be kind enough to moderate the
exhibition of your strength, at least towards this angel, who shall
never suffer for an hour as long as I draw breath."

Bertha put Gretchen on the ground, and stood with arms akimbo. "Oh!"
she began, trembling with rage, "is this the tone you begin to
take--talking in this way to me just when you ought to be grateful to
me for consenting to share your wretched lot?"

"My wretched lot?" repeated Leuthold, while his face grew deadly white
again. "Who has made my lot a wretched one?--who other than yourself?
Do you dare to increase its misery? Is not your disobedience, your
folly, the cause of the whole misfortune? If you had obeyed my
commands, and kept watch upon what was going on in the house, the
arrival of the lawyers would not have escaped you. You might have
informed me and I could, even at the last moment, have prevented the
making of that will. You, and you alone, have ruined my child's and my
own future; and, instead of falling at my feet and begging for
forgiveness, you dare to reproach me! It would be ridiculous, if it
were not so deplorable!"

"Of course." said Bertha, "it is all my fault. I expected that. Why
didn't you stay at home yourself and watch? Because you suspected
nothing, no more than I did, and because you wanted to get out of the
way of Heim, who knew all about your former disgrace. Is it my fault
that you have conducted yourself so in the past that you have to avoid
all your old acquaintances?"

Leuthold swelled with indignation. "Silence, wretched woman! Would you
drive me to extremities?"

"Yes," continued Bertha more angrily than ever,--"yes, I don't care now
what you do. The only satisfaction I can have now is speaking out the
truth to you for once. I will be reconciled to my father while there is
time. Perhaps he will make over the business to me. I understand how to
conduct it, and can make it pay. I shall have a better chance there, at
any rate, than in staying here to starve with you. My honest old father
was right when he warned me against you. Heaven only knows what
infatuated me so with your hatchet face. I saw from the first what you
were,--a heap of learning and mind, and a perfect icicle, with whom I
never could be happy. We had only been married two months, when there
was all that disgraceful fuss with Hilsborn; my father wanted me to be
separated from you then; but you stuffed my ears with stories of your
brother here, who would make you rich; and I believed you, and gave
up my old father, and came here to this hole to live with you. What did
I get by it? The little property that I inherited from my mother has
been frittered away in household expenses, that you might seem
disinterested to your brother. I gave up every things--concerts,
theatres, parties,--and willingly; for I depended upon a brilliant
future. I have waited patiently and obediently until your brother
should kill himself with the drink of which he was so fond; and, now
that he is dead, what have I got in exchange for time, youth, money,
and all? And now I am to make a grateful courtesy, and say, 'My dear
husband, 'tis true that you have robbed me of everything, you have
attempted to strangle me; but I will nevertheless take the liberty of
remaining with you, that you may continue to enjoy the pleasure of
calling me rough, coarse, and good for nothing, and that you may
instruct me with which hand I am to put in my mouth the potatoes that
are all we shall have to live upon.' This is what I am to say, is it
not? Yes----"

Leuthold had been listening attentively, and, in the course of this
long speech, had regained his former composure. He now interrupted her
with, "That is, in other words, that you contemplate adding to my
misfortunes the withdrawal of your amiable presence, leaving me to bear
my heavy lot alone. Your intention demands my gratitude; if you wish
for a divorce, I am entirely agreed to it, only pray furnish the ground
for it yourself, that my good name may not be compromised. We have
lived together hitherto in such outward harmony, it might be difficult
to convince a court of the impossibility of a longer union. There must,
therefore, be some legal ground for a divorce, and you can arrange all
that to suit yourself."

"What!" cried Bertha, "am I to conduct myself disgracefully that people
may despise me and pity you,--wolf in sheep's clothing that you are?
No, no; I'm not quite so stupid as that. And then my father would not
receive me, and there would be nothing left for me in this world."

Leuthold walked thoughtfully to and fro. "It was the mistake of my life
that ten years ago I married you to get money to make that journey to
Trieste. I thought you more harmless than you are. For ten long years I
have endured the annoyance of your coarseness and narrow-mindedness.
Such a wife as you are is a perpetual thorn in the side of such a man
as myself; my nerves have suffered terribly. And now I find you are not
even capable of maternal affection,--you cannot treat your child as you
should. If it were not for Gretchen, I would never see you again,--but
now----"

Bertha started. "Why, yes,--I never thought of Gretchen."

"You can easily understand that I shall not give up my child," Leuthold
went on, looking fondly at the lovely little creature, who was sitting
on the carpet prattling softly and unintelligibly to herself. "She is
all that is left to me of my shattered existence;--my last hopes in
life are centred in her--I will never give her up! The law gives her to
you if I should furnish grounds for a divorce: so, you see, I cannot
take the initiative. If, however, you consent to a separation, and will
leave Gretchen to me, you are free to leave my house whenever you
please. Consider what I say."

Bertha knelt down upon the carpet, and said in a complaining tone,
"Gretel, shall mamma go far away?"

The child, in whose mind the remembrance of the slaps that had made its
little hands so red was still very lively, avoided her caress, and
crept away as fast as it could to its father's feet.

"Its choice is made," said Leuthold, taking it in his arms.

"Of course you are quite capable of setting my own flesh and blood
against me," whined Bertha. "What shall I do! I cannot leave the child,
and I will not stay with you. What shall I do!"

She walked heavily up and down the room, wringing her hands. Leuthold
had carried Gretchen to the window, and was looking down into the
court-yard, where the broad, stalwart figure of Heim was just leaving
the house. He shot one glance of deadly hatred at his enemy, but it did
no harm; and with a profound sigh Leuthold leaned his cold forehead
against the window-frame and looked on whilst Heim stepped into his
carriage and took a pinch of snuff with a most cheerful air. The driver
clambered clumsily upon the box, and gathered up his whip and reins,
the horses started off, the chickens flew in all directions, their
old friend the watch-dog came barking out of his kennel, and the
old-fashioned coach, belonging to the Hartwich establishment, rattled
away.

As, after seasons of intense emotion, the exhausted mind slavishly
follows the lead of the ever-active senses, Leuthold, in his misery,
thus minutely observed every particular of Heim's departure.

"He is happy!" he thought; and then his eyes rested upon the fowls
devouring the remains of the oats that had been brought for the horses.
"Happy he to whom has been given the faculty of making himself beloved!
mankind follow him as those fowls follow in the track of Heim's
carriage. Is it any merit of his that wins him the hearts of all? Bah,
nonsense! it is a talent,--and the most profitable one for its
possessor. These benefactors of mankind, as they are called, thrive
upon it: who would not do likewise if he only could? But those who have
not the gift cannot do it. One man comes into the world with qualities
that make him useful and pleasing to his fellow-men; another with
propensities that make him an object of fear to his kind. Is the lapdog
to be commended because his agreeable characteristics qualify him to
spend his life luxuriously on a silken cushion? And is the fox to be
blamed because he does not understand how to ingratiate himself with
mankind, but must eke out his miserable existence by theft? Each
after his kind, and we human beings have senses in common with the
brutes,--and why not the peculiarities also of their several species?
Yes, there are lapdogs among us, and foxes, and wolves, cats, and
tigers! Struggle against it as we may, with all our babble of free
will, temperament is everything. How can I help it if I belong among
the foxes? Only a fool would look for moral causes in all this chaos of
chances. The activity of nature is shown in eternal creation,
destruction, and re-creation from destruction,--plants, brutes, and men
are the blind tools of her secret forces, creative and destructive, or,
as the moralist calls them, good and evil! But what do we call good?
What pleases us. What evil? That which harms us. And we are to judge
the world by this narrow egotistic scale of morals? Oh, what folly!
Creative and destructive forces--are they not alike necessary agents in
nature's great workshop? And if they work so steadily in unconscious
matter, are they dead in mankind, the embodiment of conscious nature?
Is our poor, patched-up code of morals strong enough to tear asunder
the chains that keep us bound fast to the order of the universe?
No,--it is miserable arrogance to maintain such a theory. Nature has
never created a species without producing another hostile to it; the
rule holds good in the world of humanity as well as among plants and
brutes. The parasite that preys upon its supporting plant, the insect
depositing its eggs in the body of the caterpillar, the falcon pursuing
the innocent dove, the tiger rending the mild-eyed antelope, and,
lastly, the man who preserves his own existence by preying upon his
fellow-men,--all are only the exponents of those hostile forces that
are indispensable to the economy of nature. Who can venture to talk of
good and evil? There is only one idea that we owe to our advanced
culture,--only one varnish that bedaubs and conceals the beast in
us,--regard for appearances! This is the corner-stone of our ethics,
the only thoroughly practicable discipline for the human race. Let a
due regard for appearances be observed, and we are distinguished,
lauded, and beloved among men,--the only reward of our virtue is the
recognition of it by our excellent contemporaries; their judgment
decides the degree of our morality; everything else is the exaggeration
of fancy."

He was aroused from this reverie by Bertha, who suddenly shook him by
the shoulder with an impatient "Well?"

Leuthold looked at her like a man awakened from a dream. "What is it?"
he inquired.

"I want to know what is to be done?" she replied angrily.

Leuthold laid the child, who had fallen asleep upon his shoulder, on
the sofa.

"Oh, yes, with regard to our separation."

"I suppose you had entirely forgotten it."

"I confess that I was thinking of something else at the moment; but the
matter is very simple. Go to your father and effect a reconciliation
with him. Gretchen will stay with me. You are free to go and come as
you please. If you find that you cannot do without the child, in a few
weeks you can return, if you choose. It would, at all events, be better
for you to be away for awhile until I have rearranged my miserable
affairs. I am going now to hear the will read. If I am appointed
Ernestine's guardian, my life will be connected for the future with
that of my ward." He suddenly gazed into vacancy, as if struck by a new
idea, then started and seized his hat. "Yes, yes, I must go. Perhaps I
am guardian!" And he turned away.

Bertha called after him, "Then I may get ready to go?"

"Do just as you please," he replied, turning upon the threshold with
all the old courtesy, and then disappeared. Bertha went to her wardrobe
and began to collect her possessions. "I am rightly paid for leaving a
good head-waiter in the lurch for the sake of a fine doctor. If I had
married Fritz, I should now have been the landlady of a hotel, while,
the wife of a doctor, I don't know where to lay my head!" She looked
across the room at the sleeping child. "If I only had not that child, I
should be easier! But, then, it is his child. She loves him far better
than me. It will be just like him one day, and a sorrow to me," she
muttered. Then, as if the last thought were repented of as soon as
conceived, she hastened up to Gretchen, and, weeping, kissed her pure
white forehead. "No, no, you cannot help me!" she sobbed, and snatched
the child to her broad breast.




                              CHAPTER VI.

                              SOUL-MURDER.


A fresh autumnal breeze was shaking the heavy boughs of the fruit-trees
in the Hartwich kitchen-garden. Beneath a spreading apple-tree a new
bench, painted green, had recently been placed. Some white garments,
hanging upon a line to dry, fluttered like triumphal pennons in the
direction from which a number of persons was slowly approaching the
apple-tree. Rieka was carefully pushing along the rolling-chair, which,
after so long affording shelter to the cats and chickens, had lately
been recushioned and repaired. By its side walked good old Heim and
Leuthold. Ernestine's frail little figure, with head still bandaged and
hands gently folded, reclined in the chair; and if her large, dark eyes
had not been riveted with an expression of utter enjoyment upon the
distant landscape, she might have been thought smiling in death, so
ashy pale was her emaciated countenance, so bloodless were the lips
which were slightly open to inhale the pure morning air. The signs of
returning and departing life are as wonderfully alike as morning and
evening twilight. The child lying there, silent and motionless, might
to all appearance be bidding farewell to the world, instead of greeting
it anew after her dangerous illness. For to-day Ernestine was, as it
were, celebrating her resurrection to life. It was the first time that
she had been permitted to breathe the pure, open air of heaven; and her
delight was so profound that she could only fold her little hands and
pray silently. She had not the strength even to turn herself upon her
cushions; but her youthful soul was preening its wings and soaring with
the birds into the blue autumn skies.

"How are you now, my child?" Leuthold asked in a tone of tender
sympathy.

"Oh, so well, dear uncle!" the little girl whispered with a long-drawn
sigh. "I think I could run about, if I might."

"Ah, you could not yet, even if you might," said Heim, looking not
without anxiety into the child's face, transfigured by an almost
unearthly expression. And he laid his finger upon her pulse, now
scarcely perceptible.

"Her spirit, as she recovers, is in advance of her body," he said,
lingering behind with Leuthold. "Physically such a child is soon
conquered and destroyed, but the heart is a wonderful thing in its
power of endurance. I never see an expression of real suffering upon a
child's face without the deepest sympathy. For when should we be really
gay and happy in this life, if not while we are children?"

"You are right," said Leuthold. "That melancholy mouth, shaping itself
now to an unaccustomed smile, those bright eyes, around which the
traces of tears are scarcely yet obliterated, touch me deeply."

Heim glanced keenly at the speaker expressing himself apparently with
emotion.

"Oh, what a pretty new bench!" said Ernestine in a weak voice, as they
reached the apple-tree. "And the boughs droop around it like an
arbour."

Her gaze roved hither and thither; the fluttering linen on the line
pleased her; the white butterflies, with spotted wings, hovering about
the beds, enchanted her; she thought the far stretch of country, with
its distant border of forest, magnificent,--everything was so new that
she seemed to see it for the first time, and admired it all with
intense delight. The long rows of irregular bean-poles opened
mysterious, attractive paths to her imagination. Even the tall
asparagus and the heads of cabbage, upon which large beads of morning
dew were still lying, seemed to her master-pieces of nature.

"Oh, how lovely the world is!" she said to the two gentlemen. "And no
one to punish me! You are so kind, Herr Geheimrath, and you, Uncle
Leuthold, and you too, Rieka, are so good to me! I thank you all so
much!" And she took and kissed the hands of Leuthold and Heim as they
stood beside her, while tears filled her eyes.

"You strange child, what Snakes you cry now?" asked Leuthold.

"I

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