This year also Hildegard and Hedwig found a pretext for omitting the Christmas visit to DÖnninghausen. Thus on the afternoon of Christmas day only the old brother and sister, with Johann Leopold, were sitting around the fire in the drawing-room. Conversation halted more and more, for although the thoughts of all three were occupied alike, and all knew that this was so, they shrank from giving utterance to the sensation of loneliness that possessed them. At last nothing was heard save the howling of the wind, the ticking of the clock, and the crash now and then of a burning log, which would send a shower of sparks up the chimney, and be followed by a brighter blaze. And as the flickering flame revealed in strong relief now the erect head of the Freiherr, now Aunt Thekla's delicate, placid face, and now shone in Johann Leopold's dark, melancholy eyes, changing pictures of the past also appeared,—images of youth and joy, delightful tasks, dear, unforgotten forms ascended from the grave, lost happiness, love betrayed, confidence misplaced. Who does not know the phantom train, lengthening from year to year, that glides by us upon life's landmarks? Aunt Thekla gazed after it with tearful eyes, Johann Leopold in proud resignation, and the Freiherr with a desire to bid defiance to the past and to clutch what still seemed to him worth possessing. It was he who at last broke the silence.

"This can't go on so!" he said, rising and pacing the room to and fro, after his usual fashion. "Next year, God willing, shall see childish faces around our Christmas-tree. The future heir belongs to us. Since Waldemar has just had another boy, he must give us the oldest."

"He never will do that, I am quite sure," Johann Leopold replied. "And if he would, the mother could not be persuaded to consent to it. But I hope they will all come. I have long been wanting to talk of this to you, sir. Waldemar is heartily weary of diplomacy, his wife cannot get used to the climate of St. Petersburg, and for the children it is positive poison. Moreover, there is Otto's position in society. Really, they could not do better than fold their tents and return."

"Apropos, what about Monsieur Otto?" said the Freiherr. "Klausenburg had some incredible tales from a St. Petersburg acquaintance of the brilliant figure the fellow is cutting. Elegant establishment, troops of servants, fine equipages, valuable horses, champagne suppers, immense losses at cards. Where the deuce does he get the money for it all? You promised me not to let him bleed you any further——"

"And I have kept my word," said Johann Leopold. "Moreover, he has made no demands upon me except for what I gave him. He has found some friends—lady friends, I hear——"

"What! There was truth in that scandal, then!" cried the Freiherr, pausing in his walk. "Klausenburg hinted as much, but I cut him short. How do you know anything about it?"

"Waldemar wrote me. An old princess and the wife of a former brandy-dealer were mentioned. Waldemar is intensely mortified——"

"No need of that," the Freiherr interposed. "We have been long-suffering enough. Now turn the scoundrel out of doors, and——Basta! There are black sheep in every family! Let him go!" An energetic flourish of his hand emphasized his words. The Freiherr walked on silently for a few moments, and then said, "We were talking of Waldemar's possible return. What could we do with him here? It is not his fashion to play the sluggard."

"No need for him to do that," Johann Leopold replied. "You know, sir, they wish to make a county magistrate of me, and my election to the next Reichstag is as good as certain. I do not wish to refuse the nomination, but to fill the position as it should be filled I must resign, in part at least, my duties here. As far as the farming interest is concerned, I know that if you will consent to supply my place there, it could not be in better hands, and I will make over to Waldemar the forests and foundries. With the improvements which I am contemplating they will keep him very busy, and he will be well satisfied. They were always his hobby. There is room in DÖnninghausen for all of us, and I long, as you do, to watch the growth of the young shoots about the old trunk."

"You're right, my lad!" exclaimed the Freiherr. And, pausing beside his sister, he added, "What do you think, Thekla? Should not you and I grow young and jolly again if we had merry little feet tripping about us? Who knows, if there is the sound of laughter here once more, whether that vagabond Magelone will not come home again? Does it never occur to her that the Walburgs may tire of her in time?"

"Dear Johann, she is going to Hedwig shortly," Aunt Thekla made answer. "She does not like to be here——"

"Nonsense!" the Freiherr interrupted her. "What would be the consequence if everybody whose hopes were disappointed ran away? This tramping round among the Wildenhayns and Walburgs is positively disreputable. Write that to her; do you hear?"

The servant brought in the lamp. When he had departed, Johann Leopold said, "I have something to tell you of Magelone. An hour ago I received a letter by express. I could not make up my mind to tell you before——"

"Deuce take you, lad! Out with it!" cried the Freiherr. "What is the matter with the child? Is she sick—dead?"

"Nothing of the kind. She has only asserted her right to do as she pleases. She is married——"

"Married!" the brother and sister exclaimed, as with one voice. And the Freiherr added, angrily, "Go on! Why all this humming and hawing?"

"I only know the bare fact. I received a printed announcement," said Johann Leopold. "But with it came a note for you, Aunt Thekla."

Aunt Thekla took her note with a trembling hand.

"Read it aloud!" her brother ordered; but she could not. Eyes and voice refused to obey her.

"Will you do it?" she whispered, handing the perfumed sheet to Johann Leopold. And shading his eyes with his hand so as to shield his face from observation, he read clearly and calmly,—

"Forgive me, dearest and best of aunts, for coming to you with a request the fulfilment of which is no trifle. But I know your kindness, and I know, too, from life-long experience, that even when you are displeased with me you are always trying to excuse me both in thought and word. Do it now to grandpapa, and love me still. I rely upon you.

"If my confession were only made! Or if I only knew how to begin! The beginning is simply that I was quite as unable to endure life in the Walburg Dorcas-meetings as in the Wildenhayn nursery. I told you, soon after my going to the Walburgs, of my bitter disappointment in the imperial city of Vienna. But since then the philanthropic craze of the mother and the virtuous fanaticism of the daughters have increased to such a degree that they nearly drove me wild. Now please don't look angry, dear Aunt Thekla! Does not even Goethe say,—it's the only thing of his I ever remembered,—

'Rather pursue evil courses than be thus bored'?

"I wrote you of our Charity bazaar. I had a table at it. The children of darkness have the reputation of greater wisdom than the children of light, and I really did a brilliant business. Not one was left of all the abominations confided to the watchful care of my beautiful eyes. Most of them were bought by a young and elegant man, who appeared morning and afternoon of each of the three days that the fair lasted, and paid furious court to me. Chance—or let us call it Providence—so willed it that we had a common acquaintance, at whose house we met again, and I learned to know his parents. Mamma, short, stout, decolletÉe, and loaded with diamonds; papa, tall, thin, with bony hands, and a genius for money-making. His father slaughtered oxen; he slaughtered estates, then engaged in some of these new-fangled speculations, and is said to have accumulated several millions. His wife is an innkeeper's daughter. Her paternal mansion is still to be seen in K—— Street. Both were charming to me. Both shared in their son's wishes,—that is, they thirsted for my blue blood, while he coveted my entire self. The poor fellow is really head over ears in love with me, which, in contrast with his usual blasÉ condition, produces a comically pathetic effect. I knew only too well that grandpapa never would give his consent; so at last I carried out a coup d'État which Pepi—his baptismal name is Felix—devised. It was impossible for us to be married in Vienna with no pomp or parade. It would have been too great a blow to parental vanity. So I took leave of the Walburgs to go to HerstÄdt, but in fact I arrived in Paris. Felix followed me, and since the day before yesterday I have been the Baroness Erlenbusch of Erlenbusch of Veldes on the Saar.

"Thank heaven! there it is at last on paper, and off my mind! And now, dear, darling, heavenly aunt, be kind. Please! please! I fold my hands and bend my knees, and, look! there is a real genuine tear just fallen on the paper; for in spite of the frivolity which, through no fault of mine, I have inherited, I love you all, you odd, proud, honest, serious DÖnninghausens; and if I do not any longer live among you, I prize my right to a home within your old walls. You then must contrive, carissima, to have me come to you some day with Felix. Don't be afraid. He is perfectly presentable: tall, slender, elegant,—with a little more repose he would really look distinguished. Is he so, in fact? Qui vivra verra! At all events, he is very much of a gentleman. A connoisseur in all branches of sport; in horses, in the ballet, and in ballerine. He plays, bets, owns magnificent racers, and can dissipate his father's speedily-acquired millions as speedily in a thousand ways. You would remind me of poor Wilfried, and would ask how I can stake my happiness upon the same card again? Dearest aunt, I was famished for pleasure, life, movement, splendour, beauty, love,—for all that I have foregone these many years. Now I am drinking deep of all of them. We shall spend our honeymoon here in Paris, the paradis des femmes, and then go back to Vienna. But before that I must hear from you,—one word of love, of forgiveness, of hope, addressed to 'Baroness Magelone of Erlenbusch, poste restante, Paris.'

"The name is not beautiful, neither is it ancient; but make up your mind to it, and accept it and the new grandson and great-nephew, as I must accept my father- and mother-in-law. Ye saints above! fancy them in my drawing-room! But I shall clinch my teeth and be amiable. Mother-in-law's diamonds will cover many a faux pas, and a man who wallows in millions, as does my father-in-law, need my new pathway in life is not without its thorns. Wherefore I fervently entreat you to obtain grandpapa's forgiveness for me, that I may at least flee to you in thought if——but, Magelone! should thoughts such as these be entertained by a young and adored wife? Oh, if I could only show you my wedding-dress, dearest aunt!

'I've glittering diamonds and jewels,
I've all that the heart could desire,
And mine are the loveliest eyes, too——'

"And if you will only forgive me, all is well, and I am forever your happy Magelone."

During the reading of this letter the Freiherr had been pacing deliberately to and fro, and he continued to do so in silence. Johann Leopold, having read it, said nothing, but gazed thoughtfully into the fire. Aunt Thekla took the letter and read it through again to herself. Magelone's entreaty for forgiveness touched her heart. The young creature was right; Aunt Thekla could not be angry with her long. The sins of her frivolity were atoned for by her grace. Once more it was the old lady's earnest desire to befriend her spoiled darling; and, summoning up all her courage, she said, at last,—

"Dear brother, I must answer this. What shall I write?"

"Whatever you choose!" he cried, as he passed her. Suddenly he turned short round, and came up to the table upon which stood the lamp. His face wore a marble look of anger and determination. "No, not whatever you choose!" he said, harshly. "Who knows what concessions you may be induced to make? You will write to the Frau Baroness von Erlenbusch that the members of my family are not in the world solely to enjoy themselves, but to do their confounded duty as far as they can, and to fulfil their responsibilities. Those who prefer mere enjoyment must find it elsewhere. There is no place for them among us."

"But surely, if Magelone," Aunt Thekla began again, "were to come here to ask your forgiveness——"

"She would find the doors closed!" the Freiherr interrupted her. "Unless, indeed, the Herr Baron Felix von Erlenbusch should fulfil his wife's expectations and run through his swindler-father's money. If she should then return to us alone, and needy, she shall have food and shelter. So long, however, as she makes merry with that clique, her foot shall never cross my threshold. Not a word, sister!" he added, raising his voice. "Remember Agnes and Johanna! I cannot at the eleventh hour be false to what has been my principle of action during my life." And after a pause, he said, more gently, "We must submit, Thekla. Solitude is the sad dowry of age. We no longer understand the young, nor do they understand us."

But the Freiherr did not find it easy to practise the submission which he enjoined upon his sister. Long as he had been deprived of Otto's and Magelone's presence, he felt really separated from them only when he could no longer hope to see them vindicate, according to his ideas, the honour of the family.

"I am only an old, decayed trunk," he said, on the morning of New Year's day, when Aunt Thekla offered him her New Year's wishes. "Not only has winter robbed me of my garniture of leaves, but my stout young branches have fallen off. All is wellnigh over with DÖnninghausen!"

In this same mood he was sitting at breakfast with his sister and nephew on the morning of the 3d of January, when Dr. Werner was announced.

"What! our Indian doctor? Fellow, you must be mistaken!" he shouted to the servant. But it was Ludwig Werner, who immediately appeared, and was welcomed with as much delight as amazement.

"This is what I call a surprise," the Freiherr repeated, when Ludwig was at last seated beside him, and had been supplied by Aunt Thekla with coffee. "And now give an account of yourself. First, whence come you so early in the day?"

"From Lindenbad. I have been spending the holidays with my people, and I came by the early train, because I must go back to Hanover to-day."

"No, no!" cried the Freiherr. "Now I have you once more in my clutches, you shall not slip away in such a hurry."

"Or if you must go to-day," said Johann Leopold, in his considerate way, "promise us at least that you will come back again here from Hanover."

"Unfortunately, I cannot," Ludwig replied. "There is a scientific expedition fitting out,—this time for the West Ghauts. I have been asked to join it, and I must return to London to complete my preparations."

"What! are you going to travel again?" asked Aunt Thekla. "Johann Leopold thought you would accept a professorship in Germany. We were all so glad."

"Thank you for your kindness, FrÄulein von DÖnninghausen. I did think for a while of remaining at home, but I seem to be turning out an irreclaimable vagabond." Ludwig spoke in a quiet, cheerful tone, but neither Aunt Thekla nor Johann Leopold could avoid an impression that he was exercising a certain self-control, and they scrutinized him keenly.

The Freiherr frowned: "I should be sorry for that! You are made of better stuff than goes to make up these new-fangled tramps. Stay here, young man! You'll find enough to do in Germany."

"Hereafter—perhaps in a year I shall be at home again," Ludwig replied; and then his face grew dark, as, looking from one to another, he said, "I have something else to arrange before my departure, and it is for that I am come hither. I have seen Johanna——"

The Freiherr interrupted him. "We never speak of her," he said, sternly.

"Pardon me, Herr von DÖnninghausen! As Johanna's brother, I have a right to demand, and to give, an explanation," Ludwig made reply, with quiet determination. "You appear to believe that Johanna belongs to the Batti circus."

"We know she does," Johann Leopold replied. "The newspapers gave a detailed account of her joining it."

"And upon such testimony you dropped Johanna, unquestioned and unheard?" Ludwig interposed, bitterly.

"Do you suppose we could have had any effect upon her obstinacy?" cried the Freiherr. "'Tis in the blood, my young friend! An inherited predilection, for which, perhaps, she should not be blamed, but which separates her forever from us. She voluntarily left her home, her family, and her betrothed that she might exchange them for what the papers call the irresponsibility of an artistic career. She herself told me that she hoped to render herself independent by her talent. So, you see!"

"All a mistake and misunderstanding," Ludwig replied. "Even before her step-mother's death she had left Batti, and since then she has supported herself and her little sister by writing. Here is her first book."

The Freiherr stared at him. "Johanna not in the circus!" he said, mechanically holding out his hand for the book.

"And as for her desire for an irresponsible artistic career," Ludwig continued, "I can only tell you that she has repelled all the advances, which are the inevitable result of her talent, because all that she wished for was peace and repose. This I know from her sole friend and adviser, a certain Dr. Wolf. Moreover, her only associates are the family of a humble teacher where she has lodgings, and where her life is one of secluded and untiring industry."

The Freiherr started up. "Why were we not told this?" he cried. "It was unjust, unkind of Johanna. Why did she not stay with us, if stronger inducements did not lead her elsewhere?"

"That I do not know," Ludwig replied. "I only know that out of a false regard for you the reason why Johanna broke off her engagement has been concealed from you. This she hinted to me by word of mouth, and she now tells me so plainly by letter, and refuses me any further explanation, declaring that not to spare her former betrothed, but to save you, Herr von DÖnninghausen, from pain, the matter must never be explained. And FrÄulein Thekla, who knows everything, desired that you should never be told the real cause of the break between the betrothed pair——"

"What!" shouted the Freiherr, rising from his chair. "Am I a foolish child, that others decide what may be told me and what not? I must know everything this moment. Out with it, Thekla!"

The old lady, who had risen from table with the rest, trembled so violently that she was obliged to sit down again.

"Do not be angry, my dear brother," she began, timidly.

The Freiherr advanced towards her: "Without more ado, sister, what was the difficulty between Otto and Johanna? Answer me briefly, and to the point!"

"Johanna learned——" Aunt Thekla began hesitatingly, "Johanna learned that Otto loved Magelone, and that she loved him. The note you took from Leo was written to Magelone——"

"That is not true!" thundered the Freiherr. "No DÖnninghausen could lie so! And Magelone, Johann Leopold's betrothed——"

"Had tender rendezvous with Otto for weeks," Johann Leopold interposed, while, as if to support his aunt, he advanced and laid his hand upon the back of her chair.

"Nonsense! Scandal! Who told you such stuff?" cried the Freiherr.

Johann Leopold bit his lip. He could not bring himself to mention Red Jakob, but Aunt Thekla forced herself to reply. "Otto confessed everything to me," she whispered.

For a moment the Freiherr seemed stunned. Then he laughed bitterly, and walked to the window. After a long and painful pause, Johann Leopold said, "We wished to spare you."

The Freiherr turned upon him. "Spare me!" and his eyes flashed. "Has it averted disgrace from us? Have I not still had to lose them both? Can you suppose that such worthlessness could be cast aside and leave no trace? Spare me!" he repeated, controlling himself by an effort. "And to do this you could quietly look on and see me thrust the child Johanna out into the world, after all that she had been made to suffer by one of us! Am I to thank you for this? You, my own flesh and blood! For shame! You do not belong to me. The doctor is the only one who understands me!"

Aunt Thekla shed tears. Johann Leopold stood with downcast eyes. "It was by Johanna's own desire," he said, after a pause.

"Johanna!" exclaimed the Freiherr, and a gleam as of sunshine irradiated his stern face. "I have no fault to find with her. In her affectionate folly she has undertaken the hardest task herself. She could not feign and lie; she preferred to renounce and to labour. Foolish she has been, and stubborn, but her heart is of gold,—a true, genuine DÖnninghausen!"

After these words he paced the room to and fro once or twice, and then, pausing before Ludwig, asked, "Doctor, when does your train start for Hanover? I shall go with you, and bring the child home."

Aunt Thekla raised her hand in entreaty: "Dear Johann, travel at this season! You cannot be in earnest!"

And Johann Leopold begged, "Pray let me go, sir!"

But the Freiherr shook his head: "No, my lad! I owe it to her and to myself. We will go together, my dear doctor, and I will bring my brave, stout-hearted child home!"

It was a sunny winter's afternoon; Terrace-Cottage lay buried in dreamy repose; the children were at school, the Schwarzwald clock on the landing ticked monotonously, and the sparrows, searching for their daily crumbs upon the terrace, twittered continuously.

Johanna was sitting at her writing-table. She had at last come home to work, as she called it. Her pen flew over the paper, and when, now and then, she raised her eyes, they sparkled with a happy light.

Suddenly she started. The bell on the landing rang, and manly footsteps advanced across it.

"Ludwig," she thought, rising hastily. But some one else entered! For a moment Johanna stood as if chained to the spot; then the spell was broken. "Grandfather!" she cried, rapturously, and was clasped in his arms.

But the Freiherr could give no time to the display of emotion. "Let me look at you!" he said, holding his grand-daughter at arms'-length and scrutinizing her keenly. "Just the same. What does the doctor mean by going on about weary eyes and pale cheeks? But where has the man hidden himself?"

He strode to the door and looked out. "Where the devil are you, doctor?" he shouted to Ludwig, who had retired to the glass door looking out upon the terrace. And when Johanna held out both hands to him as he approached her, the Freiherr added, "You have him to thank, child. It is he who has brought me here, and explained all your folly and the rest of it. Now don't cry. We've had enough of tears and long faces."

"Mine are tears of joy," said Johanna. "But sit down and tell me. It seems like a dream!—you here, grandpapa." And again her eyes filled with tears.

The old Freiherr, too, in spite of himself, was too much moved to speak for a few moments. Whilst Ludwig, with a sensation of bitterness, for which he took himself to task, went to the window and looked out into the gathering darkness, the old Herr placed a chair in the middle of the room, seated himself in it, planted both hands upon his knees, and looked about him. "And this is the little cage where you have been hiding all this time!" he said, at last, and his tone was rather melancholy than bantering. Johanna hastened to change his mood. "Do you not like it, grandpapa?" she asked, smiling. "Look out of the window; that pretty little terrace belongs to it."

The Freiherr shook his head. "It is all too small and confined for you," he growled. "Well, it's over now. To-morrow morning early,—I promised Thekla that I would stay here overnight,—but to-morrow morning early we're going back to DÖnninghausen. One thing I must, however, insist upon: there must never be any more concealments between us. You can and must tell me everything. Promise me this." He held out his hand to Johanna, and his eyes shone as she laid hers in it.

"Yes, grandpapa," she replied. "I will, and I will begin now. To go to DÖnninghausen is, as you know, the dearest wish of my heart; but I cannot do it unless I may carry back with me two things,—my little sister and my work——"

The Freiherr held his grand-daughter's little, cold, trembling hand in a tight clasp. His eyes gleamed beneath their bushy eyebrows, as though he would read her very soul; but she returned his steadfast gaze, and gradually his look grew gentler.

"Your sister," he began, when suddenly the door was flung open, and Lisbeth rushed in. "Oh, Hanna dear!" she cried. Then, seeing two strangers in the twilight, she stopped short.

"And is this she?" asked the Freiherr. "Come here, little one; give me your hand."

"Come," said Johanna. "This is my dear grandfather of whom I have so often told you."

Lisbeth obeyed. Her fair curls had escaped from beneath her felt hat, and were hanging about her happy, rosy face, whence large, dark, serious eyes gazed steadily at the Freiherr.

One look sufficed. The beautiful child took the old man's heart by storm. Beauty had always been an inheritance of his race.

"Well, you fine little specimen," he cried, drawing her towards him, "will you come with your sister and live with me? You must be a good girl and learn to love me and call me grandfather, as she does?"

Johanna, kneeling at his feet, covered the dear withered hand with tears and kisses.

"Child, child, are you mad! Get up, get up!" cried the Freiherr. And, as he raised her, Ludwig approached.

"Now everything is so happily arranged," he said, with hardly-won composure, "that I can leave you without anxiety. Good-by!"

"What do you mean?" asked Johanna, more struck by his voice and manner than by his words. "Where are you going in such a hurry?"

"To London for the present," he replied, "and then to India again——"

"No!" Johanna interrupted him; and her look was like sunshine in his soul. "You will stay with us; I cannot spare you."

She had taken his hand. He drew her towards him. "Johanna," he whispered, "if I stay I must hope!"

"We will both do that," she answered, with a beaming smile; and, turning to the Freiherr, she added, "Grandpapa, Ludwig is going to DÖnninghausen with us."