Life at DÖnninghausen since Johanna's departure, although outwardly unchanged, was no longer the same.

The Freiherr applied himself more diligently than ever to the administration of his extended estates, but the strictest attention to his work did not do away for him with the sensation of emptiness and loneliness. Whether he rode out or busied himself with accounts, at table with the family or shut up in his study, everywhere he missed his grand-daughter's watchful eyes, her comprehension of him, her vivacity, her fresh interest in life. In spite of the habit of more than seventy years, his sister hardly seemed so much his own as this young creature. He had always rather looked down upon the gentle docile Thekla, while in Johanna, in spite of the respect she always manifested towards him, he recognized an equal. And because she was so, and because she had found a home with him, her desertion of him, as he called it, was all the more irritating; and since he could not prevent his thoughts from dwelling upon her continually, he was all the more careful not to betray this weakness in words.

Magelone had long since returned to DÖnninghausen, graceful and capricious as ever, and yet Aunt Thekla fancied she was hardly the same; her merriment seemed forced. The monotony of her life weighed upon her more heavily, although she did not bewail it so often and so loudly as formerly. She did not know that Otto had confessed everything to his aunt, and the old lady shrank from telling her, although she sometimes thought that Magelone's mind would be easier if she could unburden it freely. She must be unhappy, for was not all the misfortune that had befallen DÖnninghausen of late her fault? And it was because she knew this and repented it that her behaviour towards Otto was so strange: now so frigidly cold, and now so provokingly derisive.

Otto had taken up his abode in Tannhagen, and was managing the small estate. He seldom came to DÖnninghausen, and when he did so he avoided being alone with any one member of the family. Aunt Thekla was more troubled about him than about Magelone. The discomfort which evidently weighed upon him at DÖnninghausen seemed to her the result of his repentance, and of his longing love for Johanna. She and the Freiherr were both convinced that he had written repeatedly to Johanna; and when she would ask him if he had received an answer, and he would hurriedly reply in the negative and then change the subject, the old lady's heart would be filled with bitterness towards Johanna. She did not reflect that in concealing his fault from his grandfather Otto was constantly sinning afresh. Now and then she really blamed herself for striving, in spite of her brother's express command and of Johanna's heartless treatment of 'poor Otto,' to keep up even indirectly a kind of communication with the girl. Notwithstanding these scruples of conscience, she waited impatiently for news from LÖbel Wolf; and when, one day, he made his appearance, and gave her a detailed account of his son's visit to Johanna, her grudge against her was drowned in compassion. Instead of the love she had dreamed of in her pretty woodland nest, to be confined in the close atmosphere of a sick-room! At the old lady's request, LÖbel Wolf declared his readiness to treat in person with Johanna, and to tell the Freiherr, whom fortunately he had not yet seen, that he had not yet made his intended trip to Hanover, but would do so in a few days.

Scarcely had LÖbel Wolf driven out of the court-yard when the Freiherr came into his sister's room and called out to her, "Good news! Johann Leopold is coming home!"

"When?" Aunt Thekla asked, half startled, half pleased.

The Freiherr shrugged his shoulders.

"The letter says shortly; whether that means in a few weeks or a few months who can say? You know the lad's ways. He never is precise."

"How is he?" she inquired.

"He says nothing about his health in his letter," said the Freiherr. "He does not, however, appear to be perfectly well. He complains generally, talks about disappointment in what he had hoped travel would do for him, and so on; but how much of it may be hypochondria it is impossible to say. Moreover, he seems to have been suddenly attacked by home-sickness. He is not even going to await Dr. Werner's return. Perhaps Werner sends him home. I was always afraid that that climate would not do for Johann Leopold. The lad begs me to answer his letter immediately; poste restante, Marseilles; and I want you, my dear Thekla, to do this for me. Tell him all that has taken place here, and let him know that I do not want to speak of it; and send him a cordial welcome home from me. I shall be glad to have the fellow here once more."

The old lady promised to write before night, and the Freiherr left the room. She remained behind, lost in anxious revery; she feared fresh disappointments and struggles for those whom she loved. Magelone, indeed, seemed more awake to her responsibilities than she had been; but, sensitive as Johann Leopold was, he would surely perceive that she was estranged from him; and since, according to Aunt Thekla's belief, he was not really attached to Magelone, he would be only too glad to sever the tie between them. And would not this, perhaps, be best? If Magelone were free to love Otto without conscientious scruples, might she not succeed in steadying him and consoling him for Johanna's loss? It would be difficult to persuade the Freiherr to agree to their marriage; but if he should see that Otto could be thus consoled, and Magelone thus made happy, he would finally consent, particularly if Johann Leopold lent his aid to the pair by making up his mind to declare frankly that he wished to remain true to the memory of his dead love. Aunt Thekla, whose entire life had been devoted to a dead love and to grief for his loss, never doubted that Johann Leopold had buried in the coffin of the betrothed of his youth every hope and wish of his life. He had, indeed, consented to a marriage with Magelone, in obedience to the arrangements of the head of the family, but his increasing melancholy had shown that this obedience was almost beyond his strength. So long as he was the only one to be sacrificed, Aunt Thekla had shrunk from putting forward any objection to the match; but now that she knew that Magelone's happiness, and perhaps more than that, would be imperilled by this marriage,—for she had shown how weak she was to resist temptation,—now Aunt Thekla was resolved to do all that she could to avert this fresh calamity from the children of her heart and home.

Still occupied with these thoughts, she went at the usual hour to the drawing-room. While yet in the corridor, she heard Magelone singing and playing, and as she entered there rang exultantly in her ears,—

Magelone looked up, broke off, and hurried to meet her aunt. "Have you heard?" she cried, her face beaming with delight. "Johann Leopold is coming home at last!"

Aunt Thekla let her work-basket fall in her surprise. "Child," she said, as Magelone was picking up its contents, "are you then so glad of Johann Leopold's return? I thought——"

"What, aunt?" Magelone asked, as she handed the old lady the basket; and, although her voice was calm, there was a certain uneasiness in her eyes.

"All that has occurred lately," Aunt Thekla stammered, as she took her seat on the sofa,—"your relations with Otto——"

"Ah, indeed!" Magelone cried, and her face flashed crimson. "Johanna accused me, then? It was just like the sly creature——"

"Magelone, how dare you utter one word against Johanna!" Aunt Thekla interrupted her. "She never gave the slightest intimation——Had she done so, she would be here now, while you and Otto——"

"Then it was Otto!" Magelone exclaimed. "How mean——"

"Child, child! it does not become you to lay the blame on others," her aunt admonished her again. "If you would atone for your fault you must humbly repent——"

"Repent—yes—that I ever wasted a thought upon the vainest and meanest of men!" cried Magelone, bursting into tears, and throwing herself down beside her aunt. "Otto loves no one save himself. He is faithless, false, cowardly. Within the space of an hour he was treacherous to me for Johanna's sake, and to Johanna for my sake. Oh, I hate him! I despise him! Since he has told you all, I will tell grandpapa——"

She sprang up. Aunt Thekla laid her hand upon her arm. "You will do no such thing. My brother must not know of your treachery, your frivolity," she said, with unwonted decision. "You have done enough mischief already."

Magelone sat down again, and continued to weep silently.

"What do you intend shall be the end of all this?" her aunt asked, after a long pause.

Magelone's only reply was a fresh burst of tears.

"Now, because you are angry with Otto, are you going to make Johann Leopold unhappy?" Aunt Thekla continued. "Remember how you talked about your marriage before he went away."

Magelone jumped up and threw her arms about her aunt's neck. "No, I will not make him unhappy!" she cried. "I know now all that he is to me. I shall be so happy if he will only love me and help me; and when one is happy one's self it is easy to make others happy. And you are right, dear aunt; grandpapa must not be told anything. He shall see how happy we are, and how I will try to be a credit to you all."

Kind old Aunt Thekla was conquered. If Magelone was conscious of the wrong she had done, and was longing to live a new life, how could any one place any obstacle in the way of her marriage with Johann Leopold? But there was still one objection in her mind. "Dear Magelone," she said, "you are right to think that only when we are happy ourselves can we make others so; but shall you be happy? Johann Leopold will be to you the most faithful and judicious of friends, but the love for which you long is not his to give. You know the touching fidelity with which he clings to the memory of his Albertine."

Magelone smiled triumphantly. "Oh, Aunt Thekla," she exclaimed, "I have nothing to fear from that dead Albertine! Before his departure, Johann Leopold wrote me a veritable, genuine love-letter. To call me his is his most fervent desire. He hopes to win my heart when he returns. And even although I give him up, he must always be devoted to me. So you see——"

Aunt Thekla saw that she had again been entirely mistaken. She saw that man's fidelity, Schiller's assertion notwithstanding, is a mere illusion; saw that there was no fitting place for her in this age of steam, when everything is whirled into the past with such lightning rapidity. And while she resigned herself to melancholy reflection, Magelone shook care and repentance, anger and love's pain, from her wings, and soared singing into her world like the lark.

When LÖbel Wolf, true to his promise, went, a few days after this, to Hanover, and called upon Johanna, she had just driven out with her little convalescent. A great part of the time which he had reserved for her was thus wasted, but the short interview which he was able to obtain with her was long enough to convince him of the uselessness of further persuasion. She repeated to the father what she had already told the son,—that she either had no claim to the possession of the jewels, or that she ought not to sell them, and added, "Entreat my grandfather to have no anxiety upon my account. Heaven has endowed me with a talent by which I hope to earn my daily bread."

LÖbel Wolf shook his head. He was sorry to find her so stubborn and unpractical. He had no desire to report personally the failure of this second attempt. He wrote to the Freiherr, and repeated to him faithfully Johanna's words.

The following evening Johanna and Lisbeth were alone together in Helena's little drawing-room. The weather was oppressively warm; all the windows were open, but they seemed to admit only the dust and noise of the street.

The child was sitting on the window-seat, with her sister's arm around her. She was impatiently watching the passing equipages, and wondering why her mamma never, never stayed at home. Then, bursting into tears, she added, "I do not want to be always waiting, waiting here. You must go away with me, Johanna."

Before Johanna could reply, there was a knock at the door, and in answer to her "Come in!" Dr. Wolf entered the room.

"It is my Dr. Wolf!" Lisbeth cried, in glee; for she had soon made friends with him, and now regarded him quite as her own property. Scrambling down from the window-seat, she took possession of him; but whilst he listened to her childish talk, and answered her as kindly as ever, he glanced from time to time, with an anxious expression, at Johanna. Did she really look paler and more weary than usual, or did fancy show him what he had expected to see? At last, when the child, sitting in his lap, was busy with a book of pictures which he had brought her, he handed Johanna a newspaper. It contained the first chapters of her novel.

"Will you pardon me for acting thus upon my own responsibility?" he asked.

"Pardon? I am most grateful to you," said Johanna, blushing with pleasure.

"I should have liked to go farther," said Wolf, his eyes lighting up for a moment. "I should have liked to put your name to it. Perhaps you may decide to do so at its conclusion. So good a name——"

"Too good for my poor beginnings," Johanna interposed. "But that is not the only consideration that would prevent me from signing my work. It would annoy my grandfather to see my name in the newspaper which his people read daily. No, I cannot allow it."

Dr. Wolf stroked back his hair from his forehead—a sure sign that he was uneasy in mind. "Do they take any other newspapers at DÖnninghausen?" he asked.

"The 'Augsburg Sentinel' and the 'Circular,'" Johanna replied. And, too much pleased to observe the young man's uneasiness, she went on: "How did you contrive to have my story printed so soon? You told me the other day that there were so many manuscripts on hand. Confess that you have been plotting for me!"

Again he stroked back his black hair. "Of course," he said, without looking at her, "I have done what I could. Yesterday morning there was no idea of it. It is, to some extent, a counter-check. Have you seen no other paper yesterday or to-day?"

His last words startled her. "Tell me, for heaven's sake! Is any one dead?" she cried, growing pale.

"Nothing of the kind," Dr. Wolf hurriedly interrupted her; "it concerns yourself alone. I hope you will not take it too much to heart." And after assuring himself by a glance that Lisbeth had fallen asleep, he went on: "Dr. Stein's 'Feuilleton' contains a notice which states that the daughter of a distinguished actor, who died about two years ago, is shortly to appear in Carlo Batti's famous circus."

"'Tis a mistake!" Johanna exclaimed. "Batti tried to persuade me to do so, but I told him it was not to be thought of."

"And did you allege regard for your family as one reason for your refusal?" asked the young man.

Johanna assented.

"They are trying to burn that bridge behind you," Dr. Wolf continued. "Without mentioning names, but with an exact description of places and persons that makes any such mention unnecessary, the notice goes on to say that an enthusiasm for art, and yet more a preference for the unrestricted freedom of an artistic career, have led you to break off your betrothal and forsake your relatives,—'the same noble family,' the article concludes, 'from which, years ago, the daughter eloped with the famous actor, the father of our dÉbutante.'"

While he was speaking Johanna grew pale and red by turns. "You are right; this is infamous!" she said, when Dr. Wolf had finished. "I cannot understand——"

"What they have in view?" he completed her sentence when she paused. "I suspect that they intend by this notice to make the breach between you and your relatives final, and to force you to comply with Batti's schemes. No further consideration for your relatives is possible after this has been printed."

"Infamous!" Johanna repeated, and her eyes flashed. "What shall I do to counteract their plan? Advise me."

"Put your name to your novel," he replied. "You will thus prove that you have chosen another career——"

"Upon which, however, the same construction might be placed," she said, thoughtfully. "No, nothing would be gained by it. What will wound my grandfather most deeply is the assertion that I have left him from a desire for a life of unrestricted freedom. I might be supposed, also, to desire this as an authoress. You must give me some other counsel. Ah, try to help me!"

She clasped her hands and looked up at him with entreating eyes filled with tears. He had never seen her so distressed.

"Be calm!" he said. "'It is ill stirring a muddy pool.' If you say so, I will have a contradiction published in all the principal papers. But would this really do any good? The contradiction would give circulation to the falsehood, which, perhaps, in Stein's obscure paper, may escape the notice of your kindred."

Johanna sighed. "Possibly you are right," she rejoined; "but it is hard to sit still and do nothing."

"You are not required to 'do nothing.' On the contrary, it behooves you to work steadily and continually if you would maintain your place in the 'struggle for existence,' of which we hear so much nowadays. An author's mortal career, unless he be a special favourite of fortune, is hard; doubly so if, as in your case, he rejects the advantages at his command. Pursue a literary calling as your father's daughter, and you will find your path a very different one from that which you must tread anonymously or under a nom de plume. Consider whether in your regard for the prejudices of your kindred you do not wrong yourself."

Johanna seemed not to hear him. Leaning against the window-seat, with her head resting on her hand, she was gazing into space, and by the light of the gas-lamps just lit in the street below, she looked so pale and weary that he feared his presence fatigued her. He rose cautiously, and laid the sleeping child upon the sofa, then took his hat and was about to withdraw. But Johanna roused herself from her abstraction, and held out her hand to him. "Are you going?" she said. "Thank you for both your pleasant and your unpleasant tidings, and answer me one more question: Was that notice inserted at Batti's instigation?"

"In a certain sense, yes," the young man replied. "I hear it is the result of a wager between Batti and Stein. The latter declared that he could conquer your aversion to the circus——"

"And I thought Batti a good man,—supposed him to be my friend!" cried Johanna.

"He probably considers himself such," rejoined Wolf. "He only wishes to force you to what he regards as your good; and if he has an eye at the same time to his own interest, why, we are all like him there."

"You have no right to say that; you are not so!" said Johanna. "What interest of yours has been served by the countless kindnesses you have shown me since we first knew each other?"

"My dear FrÄulein, can we flatter our subtle selfishness more delightfully than by rendering the services of friendship?" asked the young man. "But this has not been the question between you and me. All that I have apparently done for you was in truth contrived in opposition to another; whether from hatred, from revenge, or from a desire to shield goodness and purity, I do not know."

It had grown so dark that Johanna, although she was seated opposite to him, could not distinguish the expression of his face; but a slight tremor in his voice betrayed his emotion.

"You do not understand me," he went on, after a pause. "Let me tell you a short story. A few years ago my father adopted a poor orphan, a girl sixteen years old, the daughter of a distant relative. Sara was beautiful and good. She soon occupied my heart and thoughts. I was, however, not free. We Jews, like the children of princes and of peasants, are betrothed by the mutual agreement of heads of families. My betrothed, who loved another, was bolder than I, and afterward married the man of her choice. But at this time I felt myself fettered by what I might call the bashful sense of filial piety, which causes so many of my race to cleave outwardly to traditions which they have really outlived. Only a Jew can feel and understand this. I controlled myself with all my force, and I do not think that I ever betrayed myself, that Sara ever suspected how happy and how miserable she made me. She was not only worthy of love, she craved love. One day a dashing young soldier came to visit his family, whose estates were in our neighbourhood. He constantly had money-transactions with my father. Chance brought him into contact with Sara. How shall I tell the rest? She found favour in his eyes. And why not? She was a poor Jewish girl; he might trifle with her as he chose; it involved no responsibility for him. The next time I paid a visit at my home I soon saw how matters stood. I saw that my poor Sara was lost. But I struggled against this conviction; at least I would make an attempt to rescue one so dear to me. I thrust myself into her confidence with fire and sword. I left her no illusions with regard to the man to whom she was ready to sacrifice all, perhaps had already sacrificed all. I had controlled my love; I gave my jealousy free play. Sara's despair wrung my heart, but I thought I was doing right. Then, with my consent, she had an interview with the scoundrel. On the evening of the same day she was taken drowned from the canal which runs at the foot of my father's garden. The neighbours said she must have fallen in while getting water, which she always did herself when she was watering her flowers; my father believed this, and I would gladly have believed it. But upon my writing-table I found a slip of paper, upon which she had written in scarcely-legible characters, 'You are right.' I need not tell you the man's name to explain my interest in you. And now, if you please, we will never speak of this again."