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CHAPTER VIII.
A SISTER OUTSIDE THE FAMILY

Snow lay upon the roof of the convent, and upon the trees, meadows, and roads of the island; but within the great house was an animated twofold life, for the whole sacred narrative was here rehearsed afresh in the minds and before the eyes of the children. Every day were recalled those mighty events, so touching and blessed, that took place in Canaan nearly two thousand years ago. Manna lived so entirely in these representations, that she often had to stop and force herself to think where she was. She was seized with a longing to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, to kiss the soil of the Holy Land, and there atone for all the evil done by those who were near to her, and those who were strangers to her.

Her eyes beamed as with a fire from above, while with wonderful power she repeated the sacred history to little Heimchen, who was again sick in bed. But the little girl made her smile to-day by asking: —

"Is there snow in Jerusalem too, then?"

Manna had scarcely considered what season of the year it was, so entirely was she absorbed in the life she was describing. As she turned to look at the melting snow, a lay-sister entered and handed her a letter.

"Where is the messenger?" she asked.

"He is waiting in the reception-room."

"I will give him an answer," returned Manna, and began to read her letter a second time.

She paced the cell backwards and forwards; at one moment she wanted to seek the Lady Superior and ask what she should do, but the next, her heart shrank at the thought. Why ask advice of another human being? She looked at her hand, which had been pressed upon her eyes. You cannot weep, said a voice within her; you must not weep for aught in this world.

"What is the matter?" cried Heimchen from the bed. "What makes you look so cross?"

"I am not cross, I am not cross; do you think I am?"

"No; now you look pleasant again. Stay with me, Manna – stay with me; don't go away – stay with me, Manna. Manna, shall die."

Manna bent over the child and soothed her. This is the first trial, she thought, and it is a hard one. Now I must show whether love of mankind, of the Saviour, is stronger in me than family affection. I ought, I must! She committed Heimchen to the care of a lay-sister, and, promising soon to return, descended to the church. At sight of the picture, which made her think involuntarily of the man who was with Roland, she covered her face with her hands, threw herself in deep contrition upon her knees, and prayed fervently. Thus she lay long, her face buried in her hands. At length her decision was made, and she rose. I ought and must, and I can! I must have strength for it! I am resolved to live only for the service of the Eternal. Roland has good care taken of him; he recognizes no one; if I go to him it will be to remove my own distress, not his. Here, on the other hand, is Heimchen sick and needing me. There is no question as to my duty; I will stay at the post where not my will, but that of the Highest, has placed me.

She remembered the Lady Superior telling her how her father and mother had died, and she could not leave her convent to go to them. Manna resolved to do the same thing voluntarily, under the compulsion of no vow. She trembled as she thought that it might be better for Roland if he could die now before he fell into sin, and perhaps had to hear the dreadful secret. The idea was almost more than she could bear, but she held her resolution fast.

Manna returned to her cell, meaning to write and tell all that was in her soul, but she could not. She descended to the reception-room, told Lootz simply that she could not go back with him; and then, returning again to her cell, looked out upon the landscape. Life seemed frozen within her, but as the melting snow dripped from the roof, so her tears broke forth at last, and she wept bitterly; yet her decision remained unshaken. The whole night was spent in watching and prayer, and the next morning she told her story to the Lady Superior, who made no answer besides a silent inclination of the head.

Again in her cell, Manna read the letter, and was made aware for the first time that Eric's mother was nursing Roland. The paper trembled in her hand, as she read of Roland's constant talking with her in his fevered ravings. Why did her father write nothing of Pranken? Where was he? she asked herself; then, indignant that her thoughts should still cling to the world, with a sudden resolve she flung the letter into the open grate, and watched it break into momentary flame, and then float in light flakes up the chimney. So had it been in her heart, so ought it to be; nothing more from the outer world should reach her.

CHAPTER IX.
GROWTH DURING ILLNESS

"He is saved!" said the doctor, and "He is saved," was repeated by voice after voice through the whole city.

The doctor enjoined double care in guarding Roland from the least excitement of any kind, and when the boy complained of the horrible tedium of his sick-room, both Eric and the doctor laughingly reminded him that he had his good time in the first place, and that ennui was the first sure step towards recovery. Roland complained also of being kept hungry, and then added, his face seeming to grow fuller and fairer as he spoke: —

"Hiawatha voluntarily suffered hunger, and do you remember, Eric, my thinking then that man was the only creature that could voluntarily hunger? Now I must practice what I preached."

Roland showed himself particularly full of affection toward Eric's mother. He maintained that she was the only person he had recognized during his delirium, and that it had caused him the greatest distress not to be able to say so at the time, but the wrong words would keep coming from his mouth. Even the Mother did not stay with him long at a time.

He rejoiced to see lilies of the valley in his room, and remembered that he had dreamed of them.

"Was not Manna with me too? I was always seeing her black eyes."

Heimchen's illness, they told him, prevented her leaving the convent.

He wanted to see the photograph taken of him in his page's dress, and said to Eric:

"You were right, it will be a pleasant recollection to me by and by. Indeed the by and by is already here; it seems to me two years ago. Do give me a glass, for I must know how I look."

"Not now," returned Eric; "not for a week yet."

Roland was as obedient as a little child, and as grateful as an appreciative man. The second day, he begged Eric to let him relieve his mind by speaking out what was in it.

"If you will speak calmly I will hear you."

"Listen to me then, and warn me when I speak too excitedly. I was on the sea, and dolphins were playing about the ship, when suddenly there was nothing to be seen but black men's heads, and in the midst of them a pulpit swimming, in which stood Theodore Parker preaching with a mighty voice, louder than the roaring of the sea; and the pulpit kept swimming on and on with the ship-"

"You are speaking excitedly already," interposed Eric. Roland went on more quietly, in a low tone, but every word perfectly distinct: —

"Now comes the most beautiful part of all. I told you how as I lay in the forest that time when I was journeying after you – nearly a year ago now – there came a child with long, bright, wavy hair, and said, 'This is the German forest;' and I gave her mayflowers, and she was taken up in a carriage and disappeared; you remember it all, don't you? But in my dream it was even more bright and beautiful. 'This is the German forest,' was sung by hundreds and hundreds of voices, just as it was at the musical festival, oh, so beautifully, so beautifully!"

"That will do," interrupted Eric; "you have told enough, and must be left alone awhile."

Eric told his mother of the strange fairy story, which that decisive journey had given rise to in Eric's mind – he had heard of it before from Claus – and mentioned as a singular circumstance, that this second revolution in the boy's nature resulting in his illness, should have recalled to him this story.

The Mother was of opinion that something similar to the story must actually have happened, but warned Eric not to refer to the subject again, for every recollection of past events retarded recovery and a return to a natural state of mind.

The first time Roland could stand up, they were all surprised to see how much he had grown during his illness. The down too, on his lip and chin, to his great delight, had increased perceptibly. When he saw, for the first time, the straw spread before the house, he said, —

"So the whole city has known of my illness, and I have every one to thank. That is the best of all. How many I owe gratitude to! Whoever shall come to me now, for the rest of my life will have a claim upon me."

Eric and his mother exchanged glances as Roland spoke, and then cast their eyes to the ground. Wonderful was the awakening to life displayed before them in this young soul.

"Did Eric tell you that I had seen Pranken? asked Roland.

"Yes. Now lie down to sleep."

"No," he cried; "one thing more!"

He called for his pocket-book, in which he had written the name of the groom whom he had suspected of robbing him on his night journey. Reproaching himself for having hitherto neglected to inquire about him, he charged Eric to find the man, who was now a soldier in his regiment here, and bring him to his room.

The soldier came, and received from Roland a sum of money very nearly as large as that in the purse at the time. Eric had no need to have given such strict injunctions to the man not to excite Roland by much talking, and vehement expressions of gratitude, for the soldier had no power to speak a word. He felt as if he were in fairy land, at being thus summoned into a great hotel, before a beautiful sick boy, and presented with such a sum of money; it was like being transported into another world.

Contented and happy, Roland lay in bed again. He begged his father, when next he came to his bedside, to give away all his clothes, for he would wear none of them again.

"Do you want to put on your uniform at once?" asked Sonnenkamp.

"No, not now; but I want to go home soon, as soon as we can, back to the villa; home, home!"

Sonnenkamp promised all should be as he desired.

The Professorin soon fell in with some young people whom Roland's clothes just fitted, and he exclaimed with delight when, he heard it. —

"That is good; now my clothes will go about the streets until I am there again myself; I shall be represented sevenfold."

He desired his father to express his thanks to all the persons who had so kindly shown an interest in him, a duty which Sonnenkamp would readily have performed without this admonition. It afforded the best possible way, better than the most brilliant entertainment, of coming in contact with the aristocracy.

With his handsomest carriage and horses, Sonnenkamp drove through the whole city. His wife had refused all his entreaties that she would accompany him; but he succeeded in inducing the Professorin to be his companion. She, also, refused at first, but yielded to Roland's persuasions. It was the first request, as he said, that he had asked of her since his return to life, and she should and must gratify him by going with his father.

In proportion to the pain it cost the noble lady to make her reappearance before the world in such companionship, was the ease with which all doors flew open, as if by magic, wherever Lootz showed the cards of the Professorin and Sonnenkamp.

The lady herself was often unconscious that this was the effect of her presence; she only knew that she was tightening between herself and Sonnenkamp the bonds from which she would gladly be free, and, whenever she returned to the carriage, she begged him not to say so much about her motherly care of Roland. Sonnenkamp, who was looked upon as of quite secondary importance by the persons visited, skilfully contrived to make himself the central point of the conversation by praising the Professorin's nobleness of spirit, and enlarging upon his own great happiness in being allowed connection with such a family.

On this excursion Sonnenkamp tasted the best pleasure of which he was capable; for his highest pleasure was in hypocrisy, and in the luxury of its exercise, he forgot his deep-rooted indignation at the pride of the resident families, who were now obliged to receive him as an equal. Where he hitherto had been permitted only a few hasty and unmeaning words, he was now allowed comfortably to display his manifold experiences, around all of which a softening halo was cast by the genuine sentiment that served as their setting, the sentiment of fatherly affection. His manner, also, of confessing that he had not always thought as favorably as he should of human nature, but had been taught by the Dournays to honor true nobility of mind, won for him the reluctant interest of all. He laughed to himself, as he went down the steps, at the thought of persons saying, as he knew they would, "We really never knew the man before; he has a vast deal of character and great sensibility."

He treated with especial consideration the members of the committee upon orders, knowing himself, and having had particularly enjoined upon him by Pranken, the importance of gaining them over to his plan.

Thus had Roland's illness given a fresh impulse to the nobility project; and the Professorin had, against her will, co-operated to the same end.

Sonnenkamp could not do enough to testify his respect for the lady who, after all, had gained him his greatest triumph. In spite of her refusal to come to his fête, and help in furthering his plan, she had now become his tool. He never grew tired of rejoicing in the conviction that all mankind could be used like puppets; some were to be bought by the ringing of gold, and some by the ringing of their own praises.

CHAPTER X.
DECORATION WITH THREE EXCLAMATION MARKS

An audience had been requested of the Princess, that the Sonnenkamp family might present their thanks. The answer returned was that the Frau Professorin would be welcome, thus refusing to admit Sonnenkamp.

He next desired that Roland should write a letter of thanks to the Princess for the Professorin to hand to her, but several rough drafts, which his son wrote out, he so roughly discarded, that the poor boy was thrown into a state of feverish excitement which threatened to bring on a relapse. He was quieted by the interposition of the Professorin, who promised to deliver by word of mouth all that he had to say; but this scene put a violent end to the childlike affectionateness which had sprung up in him since his illness.

While the Professorin was at the palace, Sonnenkamp promenaded the palace garden, where he could keep in sight the carriage and servants, determined to hear at once what should be said of him there. This was the most painful experience that the Professorin had yet had to undergo. She was obliged to acquiesce in the Princess' praises of Sonnenkamp's generous nature, his extensive charities, and his noble magnanimity, of which the Cabinetsräthin, lady of honor to the queen, had given a full report, and nothing was left the Professorin but to listen, without the power to speak a word of contradiction. It was a fresh proof to her of the false position in which she was placed, and the dishonest game to which she had been made to lend a hand; first in the convent, and now at court. Yet she dared not raise her voice against this noble reputation of Sonnenkamp's, for in what light would she herself appear if she should confess what she knew?

When she was re-entering the carriage, after her audience from the Princess, a voice which cried "Stop!" made her tremble from head to foot. Sonnenkamp seated himself beside her, and required her to tell him instantly what the Princess had said. His delight at her report made him so far forget himself as to exclaim aloud, —

"Roland's illness has been a blessing to us all, – by giving us the right to call the Frau Professorin our friend," he quickly added, by way of correction. Even that she had to accept in silence, and was further distressed by being obliged to repeat the Princess' words for the benefit of Pranken, who, with Clodwig, now joined them.

She felt herself hemmed in on every side, and excusing herself early, she withdrew, in the hope of finding again in solitude her true self.

Clodwig had come, as member of the Committee upon Orders, to announce confidentially to Sonnenkamp that an order had been decreed him. Pranken embraced him when they were again alone together, exclaiming, —

"That is the first step, the first sure step."

Sonnenkamp was greatly delighted, and begged Pranken to wait while he hurried to carry the good news to Frau Ceres.

"So that is for you," she said, complainingly; "what is there for me?"

He assured her that the title of nobility would certainly follow speedily.

"Oh, but it takes so long," she complained.

He confessed to some disappointment and vexation on his own part at the slowness and formality with which everything in the Old World was conducted, but recommended patience.

"It is a good thing, to be sure," replied Frau Ceres, "that you should have an order; every one in society will see now at once that you are not a servant."

Sonnenkamp smilingly shook his head, but avoided any long discussions with Frau Ceres.

A few days afterwards, carriage after carriage drew up before the door of the hotel, bringing congratulations. Sonnenkamp affected great modesty, but Roland did not disguise his pleasure and pride, and insisted that his father should never go out without his new decoration.

The following sentence, however, in Professor Crutius's paper added bitterness to their cup of joy: —

"(Market price of Honors) Herr Sonnenkamp, of Villa Eden, transplanted from Havana, has received, from the highest quarter, the cross of honor for his services, it is said, in the ennobling of horticulture, which includes the ennobling of the horticulturist. Nothing now is wanting in the garden of Eden but that genealogical tree, which flourishes so excellently in our favored land."

There were malicious persons enough ready to express to Sonnenkamp their indignation at this would-be witty sharpness, while they watched him with curiosity to see what face he would put upon the matter. He appeared quite indifferent, but inwardly resolved to buy over that most virtuous of moralists, called Public Opinion.

He went to the publishing office, was shown into the editor's room, and was received with the utmost politeness by Professor Crutius. He opened the conversation by saying that he knew very well how to take a joke, and that his life in America had familiarized him with publicity; which remarks Crutius saw no occasion for answering. With great condescension, Sonnenkamp proceeded to express his pleasure at finding the Professor in such an influential position; Crutius bowed his acknowledgments. A little gas jet was burning in the editor's room, at which Sonnenkamp asked permission to light his cigar, offering one at the same time to Crutius, who accepted with thanks.

"I remember," began Sonnenkamp, "a bold and striking remark which you made on the occasion of my having the honor of receiving a visit from you; you had the courage to say that America was approaching a monarchical form of government."

"I remember saying so," replied Crutius, "half in jest and half in earnest, and I threw out the remark not merely as starting a good subject of conversation, but because I was of opinion that the reluctance of the best men in America to take part in politics was a sign of approaching monarchy."

"And you are no longer of that opinion?" asked Sonnenkamp, as Crutius paused.

He knew that he was reported to be in league with the party who were aiming to form an empire in Mexico, and thence to extend the monarchical form of government over the New World. It was a harmless, in some respects, an honorable reputation to have, that of being an agent for establishing a monarchy in the Southern States of the Union. Crutius sat for some time in silence, eyeing the figure before him with a keen and smiling glance. At last he said: —

"I am no longer of that opinion. The indifference of the better classes in America has ceased, as is evident from the papers as well as from the public meetings. I have also seen some letters written to Herr Weidmann by his nephew Dr. Fritz, which plainly prove that a change for the better has taken place. All feel again their rights as citizens, and political and party strife is everywhere uppermost."

"Ah, Herr Weidmann," said Sonnenkamp; "I am told that that worthy gentleman has a share in your paper."

"I know no man; I know nothing but party."

"The true American principle. That is good!" exclaimed Sonnenkamp, and went on to express, in a friendly tone, the regret that all must feel at seeing the press here so far behind the high standard attained in other countries. For that reason he should be very willing, he said, if a man of the Professor's experience would establish a new journal, to come forward to its support with a considerable sum of money, as well as to communicate important items of intelligence from his private correspondence.

"The matter is worth considering," replied Crutius. He went to his strong box and opened it, evidently with the intention of returning to Sonnenkamp the money he had formerly received from him, but saying, almost in so many words, to himself: – No, not yet; you shall have a public receipt for it by and by, – he closed the box, and, resuming his seat opposite Sonnenkamp, began: —

"I have an apology to make to you; at the time I had the honor of visiting you at your villa, I took you to be the notorious Banfield."

He carefully watched the expression of his visitor's face as he spoke.

"Thank you for telling me so," replied Sonnenkamp, very tranquilly. "The only way to clear up such a misunderstanding is to tell it to a man's face. Unfortunately, I have been often confounded with that man, and once actually went to Virginia in order to become personally acquainted with this double of mine; but he died just as I arrived there."

"Indeed! I had not heard of his death, and am somewhat surprised that Herr Weidmann's nephew, who was at open war with Banfield, should not have informed me of it. But it is astonishing what a strong resemblance there is between yourself and him. Of course I shall not mention the circumstance in my obituary of Banfield."

"As far as I myself am concerned," said Sonnenkamp, smiling, "it would make no difference; but you know the delight which the European aristocracy takes in any American scandal, and such a connection of names might to my wife and children be – well, might be very disagreeable."

Crutius protested that all personalities were wholly indifferent to him; he dealt only with principles, a sentiment which Sonnenkamp entirely approved and considered one of the advantages of European culture.

Crutius accompanied Herr Sonnenkamp with great politeness, through the outer offices as far as the head of the staircase; but the air of the room seemed to oppress him when he returned to it, and he threw open the windows.

"It is he, nevertheless," he said to himself. "Take care. Knight of the Cross of Honor, I have hold of you by another ribbon, and am only granting you a little longer time to flutter about me."

He hunted up the paper that contained the notice, made a broad red mark and three exclamation marks on the margin, and laid the sheet by in a special compartment labelled, "For future use."