Part 42 (1/2)

After this departure, that is, now that the routine of the day was no longer disturbed by Helena's caprices, Johanna's life was duly and methodically arranged. For a while Lisbeth rebelled a little against the stupid work which took up so much of her sister's time, and to which also all the other inmates of 'Terrace-Cottage' seemed devoted. The father, a kind old man, who could tell the most delightful stories, and who every evening accompanied with his violin his daughter's performance upon the piano, taught in the public school. The two oldest daughters gave music-lessons, the third helped her mother about the house, and the three 'little ones' went off to school every day, with heavy satchels and a most important air. In a short time Lisbeth grew weary of her idleness, and as soon as the physician, who continued to look after her now and then, gave his consent, she, to her intense delight, accompanied her beloved Sanna to school.

Dr. Wolf was not satisfied with Johanna's mode of life. ”Remember what Goethe says about the man 'who devotes himself to solitude,'” he said.

”The author must not be alone; the full stream of being must bring him refreshment and invigoration. And it is well also, for material reasons, that he should be known personally.”

Johanna did not agree with him. More than aught else, she a.s.sured him, she needed repose. She had much to overcome and to a.n.a.lyze in herself before she could attempt to create a position for herself. She did not confess to him how crushed she was by her experience with Batti and Dr.

Stein. She dreaded the sight of a strange face. Her intercourse with Dr.

Wolf and the inmates of the house sufficed her, and when she was tired of work, a walk in the quiet fields, or a rest on the terrace in the shade of the lindens, restored her courage. Even the simple musical performances in the evenings refreshed her more and more. The old teacher's exquisite taste supplied his want of _technique_. Many a brilliant performance in her father's house had failed to give Johanna such an insight into Haydn and Mozart as she now gained from this reverent, child-like nature. Or was it that she had become more impressionable? Her greatest gain, however, was in the constant companions.h.i.+p of her little sister, in the consciousness that, for a while at least, the child was physically, morally, and mentally breathing a healthy atmosphere. Now for the first time Lisbeth learned to laugh and play without thinking of the impression she was producing.

She often spoke of her pretty mamma, but as of some image of a fairy-tale, which had no place in every-day life.

And one day--Helena had already written twice from Brussels in raptures with the charming city--there came a letter from Batti with terrible news. He and Helena had driven out with a new pair of young horses; the fiery animals had run away. Helena, needlessly terrified, had jumped out of the carriage, and in so doing had received injuries from which she had died in a few hours. ”If I die, Johanna must take care of Lisbeth,” she had repeatedly declared; and although Batti pa.s.sionately longed for his step-daughter, he thought it his duty to fulfil his wife's last wishes. Perhaps when Lisbeth was perfectly well Johanna might take pity upon his desolate existence and bring the child to him for a while. For the present, he went on to say, the sight of her would be more than he could bear. And he could not stay in Brussels. He should probably go immediately to St. Petersburg, or to Paris, or to London. It was all the same to him now, only he must flee from the place where he had had so terrible an experience. But wherever he might be, he should labour for Lisbeth. The hope of providing brilliantly for her future was now the only tie that bound him to life and that could console him for his lost happiness.

He hoped that Johanna would aid him in making the child happy. She must fulfil her every wish, and surround the lovely little creature with all the splendour in which Helena had so delighted.

At this moment Lisbeth, who had been playing with the 'little ones,'

came running merrily into the room. ”Hanna dear, what is the matter?”

she cried, when she saw the tears in her sister's eyes.

Johanna clasped her in her arms. ”Come, my darling,” she whispered, holding her in a close embrace. ”Now you have no one except your sister; now you are all my own.”

CHAPTER XXIX.

CHANGES AT DoNNINGHAUSEN.

In Donninghausen they were looking for Johann Leopold's return. He had not informed his relatives of the precise day upon which it would take place, for he wished to avoid all demonstrations of welcome. Hence, when he arrived by an afternoon train at Thalrode, no carriage had been sent to meet him, and the innkeeper, who was wont to supply a conveyance upon such occasions, begged him, with many excuses, to wait half an hour, since, because of the harvesting, all the horses were in the fields.

Johann Leopold ordered a gla.s.s of beer to be brought to him in the summer-house, and after dismissing the garrulous host, he sat in the shady nook, contemplating his native mountains with a delight of which he had not supposed himself capable.

In outward appearance he was scarcely changed. His pale face was slightly tanned, his form a shade less bent, his movements only a little more elastic than before his travels. And within? He was not yet entirely free from the mental depression caused by the disease which he had inherited, but it did not weigh upon him so heavily. The attacks of the malady had for a year been very slight, and for months there had not even been any recurrence of them. Heaven might, perhaps, yet smile upon him. And if, as his grandfather's last letter declared, Magelone was looking forward with longing to his return, if she could really love him, and would wait until with a clear conscience he could call her his own! With a sigh he pa.s.sed his hand over his forehead and eyes. But to-day these fair pictures of the future would not, as usual, be banished; they beckoned to him enticingly upon his return to his home.

And he had struggled so long against soul and sense, and he was so weary of the conflict.

Approaching footsteps roused him from his revery.

”Good-day, Squire! Are you back again?” called a hoa.r.s.e voice, and Red Jakob held out his hand to his young master.

Johann Leopold shook it as he had done since they were boys together.

”Well, Jakob,” he said, ”you look all right again. I hope you and Christine are getting along well in your nest in the forest.”

”Thanks, Squire, as well as possible,” Jakob replied; and as, without more ado, he took a seat opposite Johann Leopold, he added, ”I'm right glad to see you here. With the best will in the world I've done a deal of mischief, and my only hope is that you, Squire, will settle it all again.”

”I certainly will if I can,” Johann Leopold replied. ”In a day or two I'll come and see you, and we'll discuss the matter.”

”No, Squire; you must listen now,” Jakob interposed. ”If you get up there”--he pointed toward Donninghausen--”and they all tell their stories, you'll never be able to understand. But I tell you, and I'll swear to it, that the gracious Fruleen was not to blame, and was----that it was a sin and a shame to send her off like a dog with the mange----”

”Jakob, are you speaking of my cousin?” Johann Leopold interrupted him.

”Recollect yourself, and don't talk nonsense. She went voluntarily to her relatives after she had voluntarily broken her engagement.”