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CHAPTER XIV.
HOW AN OLD BACHELOR MAKES LOVE

The dwellings of the numerous officials attached to Odensburg, formed quite a little town of themselves; there also was Dr. Hagenbach's house, a small villa, in the Swiss style. It had evidently been built for a larger family, but this elderly bachelor had not thought of marrying, and had been living alone here for years, with an old housekeeper, to whom was now added his nephew. As physician in chief of Odensburg, Hagenbach's professional services were constantly in requisition, but he also frequently had calls from abroad.

To-day, for instance, there sat in his office a patient from abroad, who, to be sure, did not look at all like a sick man. The man was about forty years old, and very rotund in person, his hands were folded over a very capacious paunch and his eyes almost disappeared behind full, puffy, red cheeks. Nevertheless he had a long tale of miseries to relate, counting up a whole list of ailments, until Hagenbach abruptly cut him short in the midst of it.

"Oh, I know all that you are telling me, by heart, Herr Willmann. I have already told you for the last time, that you take too good care of Number One. If you will not be moderate in eating and drinking, and take no exercise, the remedies that I have prescribed for you cannot take effect."

"Be moderate?" repeated Willmann in a soft, melancholy tone. "Dear me! Doctor, I am moderation itself. But a hotel-keeper, alas! is in that particular a victim of his calling. I must occasionally sit with my guests, chatting and drinking–it brings business, you know, and–"

"You take upon yourself this martyrdom with wonderful self-denial. For all that I care–but then you have given up wanting any help from me, I perceive. I do not care at all to have outside practice; I have my hands full here at Odensburg. Why do you not consult my colleague, who has a great deal more time?"

"Because I have no faith in him," said Herr Willmann solemnly, without looking the least disconcerted by this harsh declaration. "There is something about you, Doctor, that inspires a body with confidence."

"Yes, thank God, I throw in the needful grains of rudeness," answered Hagenbach with composure of soul. "Then people always have confidence in you. You will take my prescriptions, then? Yes or no?"

"Dear me, I submit to you in every particular. If you knew what I have stood these last days–those terrible pains in the stomach–"

"For which those good meats and soups are to blame," interposed the doctor in cold blood.

"And that want of breath, that dizziness in my head–"

"Comes from the beer, to which you daily treat yourself, your own most regular customer. If you omit the beer, and limit your meals to what is absolutely necessary to sustain life–" then he began to count off a list of remedies that almost drove Herr Willmann wild.

"Why, Doctor, that is a veritable hunger-cure," lamented he. "It will put an end to me!"

"Would you rather fall a victim to your calling?" asked Hagenbach. "It is all right; but there, go off and leave me in peace!"

The patient sighed deeply and painfully. However, the doctor's faith-inspiring roughness must have won the victory over his love of good-living, for he folded his hands and looked up at the ceiling.

"If there's no help for it–in God's name!" said he unctuously.

The physician suddenly started, fastened a sharp glance upon him and then asked, wholly irrelevantly:

"Have you a brother, Herr Willmann?"

"No, I was the only child of my parents."

"Singular! I was struck with a likeness, that is to say, not exactly a likeness–on the contrary, you have not a feature like the person I am referring to."

Herr Willmann softly shook his head, in token that these dark words were unintelligible to him, while Hagenbach continued: "Can you tell me whether you have a relative who has been in Africa, in Egypt, in the Sahara or in some part of a desert in those parts?"

Herr Willmann's full cheeks lost something of their rosy tint, and he fumbled in an embarrassed way with his gold watch-chain as he answered: "Yes–a cousin."

"Was he a missionary?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"And then he died of fever?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Was his name Engelbert?"

"Yes–"

"And what is your own name, pray?"

"Pan–cra–tius," answered Willmann, drawling it out, while he still kept playing with his watch-chain.

"A fine name! Well then, Herr Pancratius Willmann, in three weeks come again, and meanwhile, if I should be passing by the 'Golden Lamb' I'll give you a call to see how you are getting along. Adieu!"

Willmann took his leave with mild thanks for the advice wasted on him, and Hagenbach was left alone.

"The thing agrees," murmured he to himself. "He is a cousin, then, of that much lamented Engelbert, whose picture is draped in mourning. They both have that pious way of turning up their eyes; it seems to be a family-failing. Shall I tell her about it? I'll take good care not to! She would send for the dear kinsman on the spot, and then there would be a repetition of that tale of woe, and a fresh eulogium of eternal constancy. As for the rest, I must give Dagobert the prescription I promised, to take with him, as he is about to set out for the Manor-house."

So saying he went across to his nephew's room, whom he was glad to find still in. The young man had already made his preparations for going out. His hat and gloves lay on the table beside a bulky blue note-book, but he himself stood before the looking-glass, carefully considering his own precious person. He tied his cravat straight, drew his fingers through his fair locks, and tried to give a bold air to his newly-budding mustache.

Finally Dagobert seemed content with the appearance of his outer man: he retired a few steps, laid his hand most touchingly upon his heart, sighed profoundly, and then began to say something in a whisper that could not be heard by the doctor, who gazed upon the scene from the threshold of the door, with increasing astonishment.

"Fellow, have you turned crazy?" asked he, in his gruff manner.

Dagobert started and turned crimson from embarrassment.

"I believe your brain is cracked, all of a sudden," continued his uncle, advancing nearer. "What is the meaning of these preparations?"

"I–I am learning English words," declared Dagobert, the doctor, meanwhile, shaking his head suspiciously.

"English words, with such heart-breaking sighs? That is a remarkable way to learn."

"It was an English poem, that I was once more–Please, dear uncle, give it to me–those are my exercises!"

Like a bird of prey Dagobert swooped upon the table, clutching at the blue pamphlet, but too late, the doctor had already opened it and begun to turn over its leaves.

"Why so excited? You evidently need not be ashamed of your work and seem to have gotten tolerably far. Miss Friedberg, too, has given herself a great deal of trouble about you, and I hope you are grateful for it."

"Yes, indeed, she has given herself trouble–I have given myself trouble–we have given ourselves trouble," stammered Dagobert, who, manifestly did not know what he was saying, for his eyes were directed in agony to the hand of his uncle, who turned over one page after the other, while he dryly remarked:

"Well, if that is the way you are going to stammer out your thanks, she will not be greatly edified by them–yes, what is this, pray?"

He had stumbled upon a page laid loosely in, at the sight of which his unhappy nephew was ready to expire.

"'To Leonie!'" read Hagenbach aghast. "Here are verses!

 
"'Oh! be not angry if I fall
A suppliant at thy feet–'
 

"Oh! Oh, what does that mean?"

Dagobert stood there like a surprised criminal, while the doctor read the poem through, which was nothing more nor less than a full declaration of love to the secretly adored preceptress, vowing that these feelings should last forever, with the most solemn of oaths.

It was some while before Hagenbach could take in the idea, so monstrous did it seem to him. But when he finally apprehended the true significance of all this, a storm as of thunder and lightning burst forth upon Dagobert's devoted head. He patiently submitted to being lectured for a long while, but since it seemed as if the tempest was to know no end, he made an attempt at retort.

"Uncle, I owe you gratitude," said he solemnly, "but when the question concerns the most sacred feelings of my heart, there is an end put to your power as to my obedience. Yes, I love Leonie, I worship her–and that is no crime."

"But it is a folly!" cried the doctor, angrily, "a folly, such as has never been before! A youth who is just out of school, and not yet a student–and in love with a lady, who could be his mother. Such, then, were your 'English words'! It was a declaration of love, then, that you were studying before the looking-glass! Well, I shall open Miss Friedberg's eyes to the character of her pretty scholar, and you may be thankful to be out of the way when she learns the story. She will be indignant, infuriated."

He grimly folded the fatal sheet together and put it in his pocket. The young man saw the verses that he had forged, in the sweat of his brow, disappear in the coat-pocket of his unfeeling relative, and the spirit of despair gave back to him his self-possession.

"I am no longer a boy," declared he, smiting upon his breast. "You have no appreciation of the feelings that stir in a young man's bosom. Your heart has long since been dead. When the hoar-frost of age already covers your head–"

He suddenly stopped and took refuge as speedily as possible behind the great arm-chair, for the doctor, who could not stand the allusions to his gray hair, advanced upon him threateningly.

"I forbid such personalities!" cried he, raging. "Hoar-frost of age, forsooth? How old do you think I am? You are fancying that this old uncle will soon be departing this life, but I shall not think of such a thing for a long while to come, mark that! I am now going to Miss Friedberg with your scribbling, and meanwhile you can let the feelings in your youthful breast storm and bluster away; it will be quite a nice little entertainment!"

"Uncle, you have no right to mock at my love," said Dagobert, somewhat dejectedly from behind his arm-chair–but the doctor was already outside the door, on his way to his sitting-room, whence he got his hat and cane.

"Hoar-frost of old age!" growled he. "Silly fellow! I'll teach him whether my heart is dead or not! You are to be surprised!" And so saying, at a rapid pace he set off for the Manor-house.

Leonie Friedberg sat at her desk, finishing a letter, when the doctor was announced; amazed she looked up:

"What, is that you, Doctor? I was just looking for Dagobert, he is generally so punctual."

"Dagobert is not coming to-day," answered Hagenbach shortly.

"Why not? Is he unwell?"

"No, but I have ordered him to stay at home–the accursed boy!"

"You are too hard upon the young man. You always treat him as though he were still a boy, although he is twenty years old!"

The doctor hardly listened to the fault found with him, but seated himself and continued wrathfully:

"A wretched tale he has gotten up again. I ought not to tell you, properly, but spare you the vexation. However, there is no help for it, you must learn about it."

"Heavens! What has happened?" asked Leonie, uneasily. "Nothing serious, I hope?"

Hagenbach's looks certainly portended something serious, as he drew forth his nephew's poetic effusion from his coat-pocket, and handed it to the lady with the air of one bringing the worst of news.

"Read, please!"

Leonie began to read, conning the verse from beginning to end with an indescribable tranquillity, nay, a smile even quivered about her lips. The doctor, who waited in vain for an expression of indignation, saw himself, finally, compelled to come to the aid of her understanding.

"It is a poem," he enlightened her.

"So I perceive."

"And it is addressed to you."

"According to all probability, inasmuch as my name stands at the head."

"Why, is that pleasant to you?" cried Hagenbach hotly. "You find it all right, do you, for him to fall at your feet–' that is the phrase used by the scribbler."

Still smiling, Leonie shrugged her shoulders. "Let your nephew indulge his little romance; it is harmless enough. I really have no objection to it."

"But I?" exclaimed the doctor. "If the simpleton manages a single time more to praise you in song, and lay at your feet the passionate emotions of his youthful breast, then–"

"What is it to you?" asked Leonie, astonished at this vehement outbreak, for which, in her opinion, there was no ground.

"What is it to me? Ah! that indeed–You do not know yet–" Hagenbach suddenly arose and stepped close in front of her.

"Look at me for once, Miss Friedberg!"

"I find nothing especially remarkable about you."

"You are not expected to find anything remarkable about me, either," said the doctor, quite hurt. "But I look quite passable, considering my years."

"Certainly, Doctor."

"I have a lucrative position, not an inconsiderable fortune, a pretty house–that is much too large for me by myself."

"I do not doubt all this, but what is–"

"And as to my roughness," continued Hagenbach, without heeding the interruption, "it is only outwardly so. In the main I am a regular lamb."

Leonie looked very incredulous at this assertion and listened with increasing surprise.

"All in all, a man with whom one might live happily," wound up the doctor with great self-complacency. "Do not you agree with me that this is so?"

"Why, yes, but–"

"Well, then say 'yes,' then the story is done."

Leonie started from her chair and blushed crimson.

"Doctor–what does this mean?"

"What does it mean? Ah, yes, I have quite forgotten to make you a regular offer. But that will do to repeat. There, now–I offer you my hand and beg for your consent–let us shake hands on it!"

He stretched out his hand, but the lady of his choice drew three steps back and said sharply: "You must take account of my surprise; I have really never deemed it possible that you could honor me with an offer."

"You think so, because you have nerves!" said Hagenbach, quite unconcernedly. "Oh, that is nothing, I'll soon rid you of them, because I am a doctor."

"I only regret that I shall give you no opportunity for this," was the cool response, that made the doctor open his eyes in astonishment.

"Am I to consider this as a rejection?" asked he, dejectedly.

"If you choose to call it so. At all events it is the answer to your offer put so respectfully and with such uncommon tenderness."

The doctor's face lengthened considerably. He had, most assuredly, not deemed it necessary to impose a bridle upon his well-known bluntness, and to make any circumlocution in his courtship. He knew very well that, in spite of his years and his gray hairs, he was "a good match," and that more than one lady of his acquaintance was ready to share his station in life and his property, and here where his offer was doubtless a great, hardly-dreamed-of, piece of good fortune for the portionless girl, he was unceremoniously discarded! He believed that he had not heard aright.

"You actually then reject my offer?" he asked.

"I regret to have to decline the honor destined for me."

There ensued a brief pause. Hagenbach looked alternately upon Leonie and upon the desk, or rather the portrait over it, but then his restrained vexation got the better of him.

"Why?" asked he brusquely.

"That is my affair."

"Excuse me, it is my affair, if I am discarded: I want, at least, to know wherefore."

At every question put, he took one step forward, and at last made such demonstrations against the portrait, that Leonie planted herself in front of it, as if for a shield.

"If you lay such great stress upon it," said she, suppressing her tears, "be it so, then. Yes, Engelbert was my betrothed, whom I shall eternally bewail. He stayed in the family as tutor where I was governess, our spirits were congenial and we plighted our troth."

"That must have been very touching," growled Hagenbach, fortunately so softly that Leonie did not hear him; she continued with quavering voice:

"Engelbert then went as traveling-companion to Egypt; there it came over him like a revelation, and he determined to devote the rest of his life to the conversion of the poor heathen. He magnanimously gave me back my word, which I would not accept, however, but declared myself ready to share with him his hard, self-sacrificing vocation. It was not to be! He wrote me once more before his departure for the interior of Africa, and then"–her voice broke into sobs–"then I heard nothing more of him."

Hagenbach did not at all share in this grief; he rather felt an extraordinary satisfaction over it, viz., that the aforesaid betrothed lover and converter of the heathen was really dead and out of the way; but the narration mitigated his displeasure. It took away every insulting feature of the rejection. He fell into a reconcilable mood, that extended even to his rival.

"Peace to his ashes!" said he. "But one day you will cease to bewail him, and not spend all your days grieving over him. That may have been the fashion in Werther's time, but at the end of the nineteenth century the betrothed sheds the usual tears over the departed lover, and then takes another one–if such an one, perchance, there be. In our case, he is here and repeats his offer. So, then, Leonie, will you have me? Yes or no?"

"No!" said Leonie, drawing herself up indignantly. "If I did not know what I possessed in the tender, devoted love of my Engelbert, your courtship would show me. Perhaps you would not have approached any other lady in such an–unceremonious fashion, but the lonely, faded girl, the poor, dependent teacher, must esteem it great good luck if a 'good support' is offered her. To what end use formalities? But I have too high a regard for matrimony to consider it only from this point of view. I would rather remain as I am, poor and dependent, than be the wife of a man, who, not even as a lover, thinks it worth his while to treat me with proper respect.–And now, Doctor, we may consider our interview as closed." She made him a bow and left the room.

Hagenbach stood there, confounded, watching her disappearing figure.

"That is what you call being lectured," said he. "And I have quietly submitted to it. As for the rest, she did not look bad in her excitement, with her crimsoned cheeks and flashing eyes. Humph! I didn't know how pretty she is.–Yes, these cursed bachelor-ways! One is utterly ruined by them."

CHAPTER XV.
A WEDDING DAY

At Odensburg, flags were flying, cannon being fired off from the surrounding heights, and triumphal arches, wreaths of evergreen, and flowers, everywhere greeted the young bridal-pair who had just returned, after the performance of the marriage-ceremony.

The service had taken place in the somewhat remote church of Saint Eustace, where Dernburg, too, had once stood before the altar with his own bride. Now the wedding-procession came back, a long line of carriages, at the head of which drove the equipage of the newly-married couple.

The works were silent to-day, as a matter of course, the workmen forming a lane all the way to the Manor-house, and the golden sunshine of this beautiful day in late summer enhanced the merriment and jollity that had taken possession of Odensburg to its utmost bounds upon this great occasion.

Now the carriage drove through the grand triumphal arch, that made a gorgeous display with its banners and green wreaths, drawing up in front of the terrace. Eric lifted his bride out. The foot of that young woman trod literally on flowers, which had been scattered along her path in profusion. The entrance-hall was transformed into a garden blooming with sweet blossoms, and the entertaining-rooms, now thrown wide open for the reception of their new mistress, were likewise adorned.

Dernburg followed, with his sister on his arm, his features betraying deep emotion, when he embraced his son and daughter-in-law. He had offered a costly sacrifice, when he consented to the separation and lasting abode of the young pair in the South, but the infinite rapture depicted upon Eric's face indemnified the father for it, in some measure. Then Dernburg's glance fell upon Maia, who now entered by Wildenrod's side. He surveyed the proud bearing and handsome appearance of the man, who seemed just fitted, one day, to be the presiding genius of Odensburg. He saw the sweet countenance of his darling equally illumined by the light of joy, and then the shadow passed away also from his own brow. Fate offered him full indemnity for what he had to give up.

Maia flew into her brother's arms and then kissed her beautiful sister-in-law with the greatest tenderness. Oscar, too, embraced the young pair, but as he stooped down to Cecilia, he gave her a dark look, half-solicitous, half-threatening: and she must have felt this, too, for she slightly shuddered, and by a quick movement, extricated herself from his arms.

Not much time was allowed, however, for family greetings, inasmuch as other carriages now drove up to the door, and the wedding-guests began to assemble. The newly-married pair were congratulated upon all sides and soon formed the center of the brilliant circle that had collected here. None of the prominent people in the neighborhood were missing, with the solitary exception of Count Eckardstein, who had declined the invitation.

The young husband was inexpressibly happy. On this day, that had witnessed the fulfillment of his most ardent desires, his health also seemed to have been given back to him. He no longer looked sickly and broken. With flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, he accepted, with smiles, the congratulations offered him, and exhibited a cheerfulness and animation, that visually did not belong to his nature. His eyes continually turned to her, who had just linked her destiny with his own, as though he could not exist a moment without beholding her loved face.

And this admiration was pardonable enough. Cecilia looked radiantly beautiful in her bridal attire. The white satin gown, costly lace veil, and–Eric's present–the diamonds that sparkled on neck and arms, enhanced the peculiar charm of her appearance. Only her beautiful face looked strangely pale beneath her myrtle-crown. She too smiled and bowed, in acknowledgment of the congratulations that were spoken, and uttered the usual grateful speeches; but there was something forced and cold in that smile, and her voice was without ring. Fortunately this attracted nobody's attention, for the right to look pale and serious was allowed a bride.

The director of the Odensburg works and Dr. Hagenbach, who were both among the guests, stood in a window, somewhat apart. The former had undertaken the superintendence of the festal arrangements, with which the employés meant to compliment the son of their chief upon his wedding-day. All had succeeded beyond their expectations,–the triumphal arches, the decoration of the road to the church, the delegations, and congratulatory addresses in prose and verse, which had been partly attended to the day before. The main thing, however, was yet to come–the grand holiday parade of the workmen themselves, who were just now forming into line out of doors. The director was mildly excited because his management had been called in question, and spoke in a low, and forcible manner to the doctor, who, however, listened abstractedly and often looked across at the young pair, who were still surrounded by a circle of friends.

"I only wish the parade had been appointed for yesterday," said he, in a low tone. "The procession will be more than an hour in passing by, and all that time the bridal pair will be kept out upon the terrace. It is too much upon Eric. The ceremony, the parade, then the state dinner, and finally the leave-taking. From the first, I have been opposed to these great and noisy festivities, but was out-voted on all sides. Even Herr Dernburg wanted the entertainment to be as magnificent as possible."

"That is quite in the nature of things, at the wedding of his only son," suggested the director, "and the participation of the Odensburg hands was not to be rejected. I think we shall gratify him with our procession; it must make a fine show in the bright sunlight. As for the rest, I cannot understand your solicitude about the young master. He looks splendidly–I have never seen him as cheerful and fresh-looking as to-day."

"That is the very thing that makes me uneasy. There is something feverish in his excitement, and in his condition any excitement is poison. Would that he were now quietly seated in the carriage by his wife's side, having left all this jubilation behind them."

They were interrupted by a servant announcing that the procession was ready to move, only awaiting the appearance of the family. The director stepped up to the young couple, and in the name of all the Odensburg employés, asked them to accept their homage.

Eric smiled, and offered his arm to his young wife, that he might escort her to the terrace. Dernburg and the guests joined them.

That was a fascinating panorama on a grand scale that now unfolded itself before their eyes, out of doors, in the bright noonday sun. The chief officers stood at the foot of the terrace, while their subordinates headed single groups of the gay procession, which had taken its position on the broad piece of level ground extending up to the works, and now put itself in motion.

In dense and endless masses, with music and waving banners, the thousands of workmen marched past, the men from the forges up in the mountains having joined them. By a very skillful arrangement they had interspersed groups of children, that with happy effect broke the monotony of the procession. The pupils of the schools founded by Dernburg stepped proudly along, in their Sunday clothes, pleasure in a holiday beaming from every face: when they caught sight of the bride they waved caps and bunches of flowers, almost splitting their little throats with the loud cheers that they gave out one after another.

It cost trouble to keep the way clear for the procession, for the wives of the workmen, with the tiniest children in their arms, lined the sides of the road, and, besides, the inhabitants of all the region round about had streamed hither. All eyes were turned towards the terrace, to the white form of the bride, before whom all standards were lowered, and for whom all this rejoicing was made: she was the one to whom the whole entertainment was given, and received honors such as usually fall only to the lot of a princess. Incessantly she bowed her head in recognition of the people's kindness, but there was something of restraint in her action, and her large, dark eyes looked coldly upon all these demonstrations of joy, as though she saw nothing of them, and as though in far, far-off space she sought something entirely different.

Eric, on the contrary, as was most unusual with him, took the liveliest interest in all that was going on. He drew Cecilia's attention to special features of the procession, turning repeatedly to the director to thank him for all the gratification that his skill was affording them, and seemed to have entirely laid aside his timidity and reserve. At other times it had been painful and oppressive to him, to be the chief person upon occasions of the sort, but to-day he hailed it with joyful pride, for the sake of his young wife.

Dernburg stood by his son's side, and received these demonstrations of popularity with kindly gravity. Who could blame him, if his chest heaved more proudly and his massive form became more erect, at sight of the thousands who were marching by? Those were his workmen to whom, for thirty long years, he had been a master, but also a father, for whose weal he had labored and toiled as for his own, and these they would estrange from him! These were to turn from him to follow another, who, as yet, had done nothing for them; who had begun his career by setting up opposition to the man who had been a greater benefactor to him than to all besides! A contemptuous smile played about the lips of the lord of Odensburg, the ground upon which he stood was firm as a rock; of that he felt impressed more strongly than ever to-day.

But still another looked with swelling bosom and flashing eyes upon the masses flowing by,–Oscar von Wildenrod, who stood with Maia under one of the orange-trees. Gigantic as had the control of the Odensburg works appeared to him, from the start, never had the power and importance of Dernburg's position struck him as it did to-day–and this was to be his future destination. To be the ruler of such a world, to guide it with a word, a sign,–that had been his aim since that first evening when he had looked over at those works, veiled as they were in the darkness of night. Now, at last, he stood close before his goal.

His glance turned to Maia, and the proud triumph resting upon his features melted into a blissful smile. The half-comic, half-solemn dignity, with which Maia wore the long train to her blue silk gown, unused, as she was to such an appendage, became her charmingly; her rosy cheeks glowed from joyous exhilaration. With the frolicsomeness of a child she let herself be borne along by the waves of joyful excitement that were bounding in her heart. She knew that her father had withdrawn his opposition to her love.

"Is it not beautiful?" asked she, lifting her radiant eyes to his face. "And Eric is so happy!"

Oscar smiled and bent over her.

"Oh, I know one who will be happier than Eric, when he stands there on yonder spot, with his young bride by his side, when–"

"Hush, Oscar!" interposed Maia with glowing face. "You know–papa will not allow a whisper of that now."

"Nobody hears us," said Oscar, and indeed the noise of the music and cheers drowned his passionate whispering. "And your papa is not so stern as he would have us believe. He has, it is true, denied my petition to have our engagement publicly announced to-day, it was hard enough to wrest a consent from him on any terms. But now you are here, and if his darling asks him, he will not say her nay. I shall renew the siege to-morrow–will you help me, my Maia?"