Part 19 (2/2)
”That is over, sir,” said Johann Leopold. ”Since Otto promised you he would never play again, he has never--my information comes from a trustworthy source--touched a card.”
The Freiherr, who was again pacing to and fro, waved his hand in sign of disapproval. ”I do not trust the fellow,” he murmured; and then went on aloud, ”Why discuss matters which are quite out of the question? You are the heir, and the heir you will remain, even although”--he hesitated a moment--”even although you should decide not to marry. I can transfer to you the work of my life in full confidence that you will continue it after my own fas.h.i.+on. I rely upon you to do so, difficult as you may find it, and even although the task requires you to resign one or another of your own inclinations. A lofty position in this world entails upon us certain duties. Men of our rank, my dear boy, cannot choose a sphere of action. We are born into it, and it is our duty--we owe it to ourselves--to shape ourselves to it to the best of our ability.”
Johann Leopold looked down; he breathed heavily, and his lips were tightly compressed. He had laboured hard for months to form a resolution, and when it was formed to carry it out, and now he perceived, with a kind of terror, that his grandfather's words had shaken his decision. Was it not as the Freiherr said? Was it not a cowardly desertion of the post which fate had accorded him to resign the inheritance of his ancestors, and to break with the duties and traditions of his rank and family? But besides his grandfather's voice others were speaking aloud within him, requiring as urgently that he should abide by what he thought right. When the Freiherr paused before him, saying, ”I trust, Johann Leopold, that I may rely upon you,” he looked up; he was not yet clear in his mind, and in every way strength failed him for a final decision. ”I will try to get well,” he replied, although he did not believe in the possibility of recovery.
His grandfather grasped his hand. ”That's right, my boy! Only try, and you will do it!” he exclaimed, with a joyous hopefulness that, old as he was, always lent him a certain youthful freshness. ”Let us have no hypochondriacal complaints,--no morbid self-examinations. It is well for you to go away for a while; it will give you something else to think of. Now for your preparations for your journey, that you may go as soon as possible.”
The young man then confessed that, relying upon his grandfather's consent, he had already empowered Dr. Werner to arrange for his journey as far as possible; all that remained to be done he would himself attend to in Vienna, where he wanted to pa.s.s a few days.
”It would be best to follow Dr. Werner on the day after to-morrow,” he added. ”The vessel sails from Trieste on the 14th of this month.
Everything here is arranged and attended to.”
The Freiherr was surprised; he had not looked for so speedy a departure, but he was ashamed to seem averse to it.
”Well, then, the day after to-morrow,” he said; ”only bear up, my boy, against the women's tears.”
”No one will grieve,” Johann Leopold replied, with a melancholy smile.
Indeed, what with bustle and excitement, there was scarcely time for grief; but Aunt Thekla supplied tears and lamentations enough as she superintended the packing of the trunks.
It was bad enough that such a dear good creature as Dr. Werner would insist upon undertaking such a foolish expedition; and then, too, he did it for the love of science. But what a Donninghausen could find to do in India the old lady could not for the life of her conceive; and still less did she understand how her brother could let the lad, hardly recovered as he was, leave Donninghausen. But the Freiherr seemed better friends than ever with Johann Leopold. His voice and look when he addressed him were most kind, and sometimes when he thought himself unperceived he would gaze at his grandson with an expression of such anxiety as went to Aunt Thekla's very heart.
To Johanna Johann Leopold had much to say; he commissioned her to install Red Jakob and Christine in the Forest Hermitage; told her where to address her letters to him, and promised to write to her in return.
He was as taciturn as ever with Magelone, but his eyes spoke a different language from any she had read in them before. What was the meaning in those deep, grave, melancholy eyes?
The last morning he handed his grandfather a letter. ”For Magelone,” he said. ”Let her give you her answer, and you will write me what it is. Do not urge her, do not influence her; and if she thinks she can find her happiness elsewhere, let no consideration for me prevent her from grasping it.”
The letter ran thus:
”DEAR MAGELONE,--You know that considerations of health have determined me to this journey, which will keep me absent for an uncertain period from you and from my home. Only my grandfather and yourself must know that I am very ill, perhaps hopelessly so, and it is with great pain that I add that under these circ.u.mstances it seems to me dishonourable to hold you bound by the half betrothal at present existing between us. If I should one day return well, and find you still free, and ready anew to bestow upon me your heart and hand, my most ardent desire will be fulfilled; and perhaps, dear Magelone, I might then be better qualified to win you than now, when illness depresses and embitters me. But your future must not depend upon this _perhaps_; you must not, upon my account, reject or turn away from what might make you happy. _You are free, perfectly free._ Show our grandfather this letter, that he may know how we stand with regard to each other. If you can give him a kind word of comfort for me--no promise; I cannot accept any such from you now--I shall be heartily grateful to you. Once more, dear Magelone, you are free, whilst I am now and forever yours,
”JOHANN LEOPOLD.”
As soon as the carriage bearing away the traveller had vanished from the eyes that were watching its departure, the Freiherr handed this letter to Magelone. He pitied 'the warm-hearted little thing,' as he had called her ever since Johann Leopold's accident, all the more since she bore her grief with astonis.h.i.+ng fort.i.tude. Not a tear, not a sob, not a fainting-fit,--nothing of all that he so detested. She had extricated herself from Johann Leopold's last embrace like a little heroine, merely pressing her handkerchief once to her eyes. Not one of the women among his vaunted ancestry could have conducted herself better upon the departure of a Donninghausen for the Holy Land.
”G.o.d willing, she shall be the lad's wife yet, and the mistress of this old cradle of our race!” the Freiherr thought, and handed her the letter.
And then the 'little heroine' went to her own room, where she read and reread the strange farewell lines. Oddly enough, although they contained none of the flattering words of love which she had often heard from others, there breathed from them a deep, ardent affection, and while the writer's words declared her free, she felt more than ever how he longed to bind her fast. Had the suspicions she had felt of him and of Johanna been groundless, then? or was he tired of straying and returning to her repentantly? However it might be, she determined to forgive him, since he lay at her feet once more. It was a pity that she must do so from such a distance! It made her laugh to think of it.
After a short period of reflection, she took the letter to her grandfather.
”Well, what am I to write to Johann Leopold?” he asked, when he had read it through, and he looked fixedly at her; but ah! his frank, honest gaze could not sound the depths of those flas.h.i.+ng, glimmering, elfish eyes.
”I send him a thousand greetings, and wish and hope for his speedy return well and strong,” Magelone replied, with a sweet smile.
”Right, child; those are the kind words which the silly fellow asks of you,” said the Freiherr. ”He has, as I see, forbidden you to give him any promise; but that is no affair of mine. Tell me frankly,--I had better know the truth,--do you, as well as he, in spite of this letter, hold yourself bound?”
He held out his broad hand to her, and she laid her rosy fingers in it.
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