Kitabı oku: «A Noble Name; or, Dönninghausen», sayfa 21

"I don't care. I will liberate myself!" Otto concluded his soliloquy. And before he went to bed he wrote to Johann Leopold that he accepted his proposal, and was ready to agree to an immediate legal settlement of the affair.

In a few weeks everything was arranged. Johann Leopold had explained to the Freiherr that he was convinced of the incurability of his inherited malady, and the Freiherr acquiesced without a murmur in what was inevitable. He thought Magelone's reluctance to living for the present beneath the same roof with Johann Leopold very natural. It was more difficult, however, to induce him to agree to Otto's new plans. He declared indeed, with bitter decision, that Otto never should be intrusted with Dönninghausen, but he could not comprehend the young man's voluntary relinquishment of his rights. It irritated him afresh against the grandson whom he had hardly yet received again into favour, and at last he agreed that it would be well for Otto to go away, adding that it had best be as soon as possible: all pains were thrown away upon him. So Magelone went to visit the Walburgs in Vienna, and Otto went to St. Petersburg. It was lonely at Dönninghausen.

CHAPTER XXX
AN OLD FRIEND ONCE MORE

A year and a half had passed since Johanna first went to live in 'Terrace-Cottage,' near the Kahlenberg Thor. It was the close of a gray December day; she could not see to write any longer. She rose from the table, and went to the window to read by the fading light, in a famous South German periodical brought her by Dr. Wolf, a favourable criticism of her book, which had recently appeared. As she read, she was both pleased and grieved. Where were all those in whose hearts her own joy might have found an echo?

But the next moment she raised her head, and brushed away her tears. Had she not reason to be glad and grateful? "Indeed I have," she said to herself. And as she gazed out in the twilight upon the gleaming expanse of snow, she reviewed in spirit all that life had brought her here.

First of all there was a long series of apparently monotonous, but in reality very beneficial, days of hard work, in which the joy and pain of her creative fancy had worn away her heart-ache, until there had come an hour which she never should forget.

It was in harvest; she was walking just after sunset beside a hedge-row. White gossamers floated in the clear air; all around her there was absolute silence. Suddenly a joyous note rang out from far above her. It was a belated lark. She looked up, surprised, and in that very moment she had the sudden consciousness of relief and freedom which had so long been unknown to her. Since then she had been able to think of Otto, without bitterness, as of an entire stranger. She still had a sense of having lost something fair and sweet; but her inmost self was untouched, her true life undisturbed.

Thus restored to mental health, she had learned to rejoice in her new existence, in her work for its own sake, in her gradual improvement and success, and the result which she achieved. Many an acknowledgment, many a word of encouragement, many a kindly salutation, had reached her in her solitude, and had given her the assurance that she had not written in vain.

And how her very heart and soul had been fed by Lisbeth's love, and the child's health and progress! When the terrible news had come from Brussels, the little one had cried bitterly for her dear pretty mamma, whom she should never see again. But childhood's tears are soon dried; Lisbeth soon smiled through hers. Her new home became her world, and every one in the house petted and loved the little orphan.

Johanna, however, was the dearest confidante of her childish heart, and an evening walk with her through the silent fields, the hour of quiet talk before she went to bed, the tête-à-tête of the sisters at their early breakfast, were Lisbeth's cherished enjoyments.

Johanna's hope that the child would be left solely to her care had been fulfilled. Batti had written only once after his first outpouring of despair and grief. He had then sent trunks full of expensive dresses, etc., to be kept for Lisbeth; and since no word had come from him. Johanna saw in the newspaper that he had passed the winter in Paris instead of St. Petersburg, and that was all that she knew, and even more than she wished to know, concerning him. She did not conceal from herself for a moment the magnitude of the responsibility which thus devolved upon her; but she felt strong and capable. She wrote upon her blotting-book the homely old motto, —

 
"Do thou but begin the weaving,
God the yarn will aye be giving."
 

Thus far it had been given to her, and she would always heed Goethe's admonition, "Go to work and help yourself for the present, and hope and trust in God for the future."

And yet, in spite of all that she possessed, and most frequently when she was vividly conscious of how much this was, she was tormented by a painful sense of deprivation. Her intercourse with the members of the household was most friendly. Dr. Wolf visited her frequently, was her faithful adviser, brought her books and periodicals, intellectual food of all kinds; but with increasing hunger she longed for Aunt Thekla's maternal care, the society of her grandfather, and Ludwig's faithful, honest affection.

She never allowed herself any indulgence in this species of home-sickness; and now, as always when it attacked her, she strove to distract her thoughts; she would call Lisbeth, who was playing with the 'little ones,' and she had just opened her own door to do so, when the landing-door was hastily flung wide.

Involuntarily she stood still. The dogs barked, the door-bell rang violently with the shock, and a man addressed a question to her from the gathering darkness. She did not understand it, but she knew the voice.

"Ludwig!" she almost screamed, and the next moment she was clasped in his arms.

And then came the 'little ones' with the dogs and a light, to see what was the matter. Their shouts brought the rest of the family. There were delight, surprise, tears, and laughter. Dear Dr. Werner was conducted to the drawing-room in triumph, and there he sat beneath the hanging-lamp, to be gazed at by all. How brown he had grown! and how much darker were his hair and beard! His eyes, on the contrary, looked lighter. Sanna asked if the Indian sun had not faded them a little.

How strange that he had been in India, and yet here he was in Hanover, sitting at their little round table just as he had sat there three years ago! Thus the 'little ones' chattered on, learning, in answer to their questions, that he had just come from London, and was going to spend his Christmas at Lindenbad, whilst the older sisters consulted as to what should be served for supper in honour of their guest, and regretted that this was their father's glee-club evening. The poor mother's thoughts were filled with her lost darling, and Lisbeth stood in the background, with her arm about Johanna's neck, eying with some suspicion this stranger who called her sister 'Johanna' and seemed so glad to see her.

She would have remained at her post when Frau Rupprecht called her children from the room to give the foster-brother and sister an opportunity for a quiet talk, but Jetta carried her off without more ado.

"At last!" cried Ludwig, holding out both hands to Johanna, and then words seemed to fail him for what he wanted to say.

After a pause, Johanna asked, "Did you come to see me or the Rupprechts? I mean, did you know that I was here?"

"Yes, I have known it for a few days," he replied; and he added, with a gloomy air, and in his old harsh tone, "Bad enough it was to have to hear it from strangers. Why did you never write to me?"

"I could not!"

"You could not!" he repeated, and his lips quivered. Neither spoke. How they had longed for this meeting, and now – What still separated them? Suddenly Ludwig laughed derisively: "A game of hide-and-seek. I sit, absorbed in my work in London, supposing you married, and asking no further questions, and Johann Leopold imagines I know everything from yourself. And did you never write to Lindenbad?"

She shook her head. "My correspondence with Mathilde had languished for a long time, and I do not like to complain," she said. He took her words as a hint, and said, evasively, "Let me tell you how I discovered you. On a visit to a patient – I do not practise usually, but I could not refuse the urgent request of a few of my countrymen – I found her full of delight in a German book which she had just read. She showed me the title-page. The odd motto reminded me of you: 'Do thou but begin the weaving, God the yarn will aye be giving.' Do you remember how we quarrelled over it once? As I was recollecting this, I turned over the leaves mechanically. I seemed to recognize your manner of speech, your way of looking at men and things. Yes, there was Lindenbad, and even the garden-gate from which we have so often watched the sunset with my blessed mother. I took the book home with me, and read it steadily until I had finished it —I reading a woman's romance! And as I laid it aside I said to myself, 'Either she wrote it, or there exists somewhere her twin mind.' This was interesting psychologically. You can guess the rest. Day before yesterday I received an answer from your publisher. And now it is your turn to tell what you wish to. Only what you wish to," he added, with some bitterness. "I know that the old right is no longer mine, and I do not lay claim to it."

His last sentence hurt Johanna, and closed her heart and her lips. She gave him only the outlines of all that she had passed through. Ludwig supposed that it pained her too much to dwell upon it. Thus they still played 'hide-and-seek' with each other, and when they were no longer alone, Johanna scarcely knew whether to rejoice in their meeting again.

The next morning Ludwig was to leave Hanover: he was expected in Lindenbad; but he came early to Terrace-Cottage, knocked at Johanna's door, and found her alone.

"Now it is your turn to give an account of yourself," said Johanna, after the first salutations. And he told her, in his old, familiar way, of his travels, his researches, his work and its results. More than all it seemed to delight him that he had lately been proffered a chair in a German university. Johanna asked if he should accept it.

"I do not know; it depends," he replied, with some hesitation. "But enough of myself. I think you are changed; it strikes me to-day, by daylight, for the first time. You are pale, you look weary. Have you been ill?"

She shook her head.

"Then you work too much, you take too little exercise." And, with a glance toward her writing-table, he added, "How did you happen upon authorship? I cannot understand it."

"Recollect how I always loved to 'make up' stories," Johanna replied. "The love grew with my years. Thank God that it was so! My desire to go upon the stage was only a misconception of my task."

"Task?" he repeated. "You do not believe that anything, save the force of outward circumstances, drove you to write? Do not deceive yourself – "

"Most assuredly I do believe it!" she interrupted him, and her eyes sparkled with pleasure. "The longing for some little corner of the earth in which I could plant my flowers was there long before necessity forced me to labour; and then, when the crash came both in my outward and my inner life, the talent which I possessed supplied the place of home and friends and love, or rather, let me say, restored them to me; for all of these that I had ever possessed came back to me in the creations of my imagination."

Ludwig sat with downcast eyes, silent, his forehead contracted in a frown.

"Do not look so stern!" Johanna said. "I am my father's daughter; and if I have inherited only an atom of his grand artistic gift, I must receive it as the one talent intrusted to me, and trade with it as did the servant who was faithful in a few things."

Ludwig knew and loved the low, trembling tone in which the last words were spoken. And her eyes, too, shone as in their old youthful days. With a gentler expression he rejoined, "We'll say no more of that; it really is in your blood. Opposition is useless. Only one question: What did the Dönninghausens say to it?"

"They knew nothing about it," replied Johanna. "Sometimes, since my book has been so well received, I have thought it might have pleased them."

Ludwig did not appear to have heard the last part of her reply. "Your writing, then, was not the cause of your break with Otto?" he asked.

"No; Otto did not love me, – he never loved me, – I had proof of that," she replied. "Of course I tell this only to you. Grandpapa never would forgive Otto."

"Otto, Otto, always Otto!" thought Ludwig, as he rose. "I must go," he said; but when Johanna took the hand he held out to her, he seemed absolutely unable to leave her. "Come with me to Lindenbad," he begged. "That would be our best Christmas."

She shook her head. "Scarcely for your sister," she replied. "And what would become of Lisbeth? I cannot leave her alone, and if I could venture to take her such a journey in winter, she would feel strange and lonely at Lindenbad, and would be still less welcome than I to Mathilde, who is not fond of children."

Ludwig took up his hat. "Excuses of all kinds; I yield!" he said, in an irritated tone. "Farewell. Au revoir!" And, with one more cordial clasp of her hand, he was gone.

"Write to me!" Johanna begged. But the door closed quickly, and she could not be sure that he had heard the words.

He certainly was in no hurry to fulfil her request. The Holy-tide came and went, bringing her no word from him. Johanna took herself to task for continuing to watch and to hope, and for her inability to rid herself of the memories which seeing him again had aroused within her. Wherever she was – in church, in the Rupprecht family circle, at her writing-table – Lindenbad and Dönninghausen were always present to her.

And at last – Johanna could not avoid an impression that some subtile psychological influence had been at work – she received a sign of life from both places. The longed-for envelope from Lindenbad arrived, enclosing a letter to Ludwig from Johann Leopold, to which the former had only added a few lines. Johann Leopold wrote:

"Dönninghausen, December 23, 1876.

"My dear Friend, – Although it has now been for some years my custom to look to you for aid and counsel, I would spare you my present application if I knew of any one to turn to in your stead. Therefore I trust you will forgive me for alluding to painful subjects, which we have hitherto avoided mentioning to each other.

"I have just seen by the paper that the 'equestrian artist,' Carlo Batti, has gone with his circus to St. Petersburg for the winter. My cousin Otto recently procured a position there as an officer in the Guards, and a fear lest a meeting between Johanna and himself might give occasion to fresh scandal, and that Johanna's connection with our family might be used anew as an advertisement for the circus, leads me to write to you. I do not wish to blame Johanna for what she did in the glow of her first indignation; although I confess I thought hers a nobler nature than it proved itself to be. She should not have entirely forgotten all regard for our family, and especially for her grandfather's personal feeling, and she must not do it a second time. Will you represent this to her, my dear doctor? You have more influence with the unfortunate girl than I have. Also pray remind her that Waldemar, Otto's brother, with his young wife, lives in St. Petersburg. I hope that it will need only this reminder to induce Johanna, now that her first anger is past, to spare us. If – which I can scarcely suppose possible – you no longer have any intercourse with Johanna, and do not know her address, it will, I should think, be enough to direct your letter to Batti's circus, St. Petersburg.

"The post is just leaving, wherefore pray accept a hasty farewell for the present from your sincere friend,

"J. L. von Dönninghausen."

With this letter came a few lines from Ludwig, written in evident agitation:

"Dear Johanna, – Little as I am able from the scanty information furnished me by you to understand the contents of the enclosed letter, I gather from it that Herr O. v. D. has explained your separation from him by a tissue of vile falsehoods. You will instantly send me the requisite details, that I may acquaint your relatives with his rascality. Do not imagine that you can prevent me from doing so. I shall find means at any rate to learn the truth. It is bad enough that you, for the sake of a scoundrel, have suppressed it for so long."

This was not the salutation for which Johanna had longed, and yet in these angry lines she found once more the faithful dictatorial friend of her early girlhood, and a sensation of being protected, from which she had long been debarred, took possession of her. He must not, indeed, be allowed to interfere at Dönninghausen; but it did her good to know that he was ready to do battle for her with his old fiery zeal.

Thus cheered, she sat down to reply to his note. She could not, however, find words for just what she wished to say, and when she read over her finished letter it seemed to her cold and insufficient; nevertheless, it had to be sent immediately, lest Ludwig should be left to discover the truth after his own fashion.

She wrote: "I thank you from my heart, my dear Ludwig, for your care for me, and for all that you wish to do and would do in my interest, if you were right in your suppositions. But you have misunderstood my expressions, as well as Johann Leopold's letter. Otto is not to blame for the report that I am become a rider in the circus, but Carlo Batti himself, who hoped thus to force me to a career for which he thought I had a talent. Probably the enclosed notice, which was written by a friend of Batti's, has fallen into Johann Leopold's hands. Pray tell him the real state of the case, and that I am not responsible for the false statements of the newspaper. I pray you to forego all further explanations; not that Otto may be spared, but for my grandfather's sake, that he may be saved from fresh mortification and pain. Aunt Thekla, who knows all about it, not only agrees with me in this view of affairs, but desires that I should be silent to my grandfather as to the true reason for my break with Otto. That I concealed it from you also was the result – pray believe this – not of any regard for Otto, but of a certain sense of shame, and of repugnance to discuss the affair. In my own mind I am so entirely separated from Otto that even my memory of him seems something quite apart from myself. I had hoped that you perceived this at our last interview. Since you did not, I am glad of an opportunity to tell you that it is so, for I long to have you understand me thoroughly as in the dear old days. Were you perhaps led astray by some expression of mine of home-sickness for my grandfather or Dönninghausen? These are separations the pain of which I never shall overcome. But I know that they are irrevocable, and I pray you also to accept them as such. Write me that you do, and then tell me how you all are, and whether you have concluded to remain in Germany. How glad I shall be if you have!"

The letter was sent. Johanna reckoned up the time that must pass before the answer to it could arrive. But days went by in anxious expectation, and again she tried, in vain, to direct her thoughts into another channel.

Waking and dreaming, her mind was occupied with Ludwig. "We must study each other anew," she said to herself.

CHAPTER XXXI
THE TRUTH AT LAST

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, —