A Noble Name; or, Dönninghausen

"I cannot," Johanna repeated.

For a while both were silent; then Aunt Thekla looked up timidly at her niece and said, "Do not misunderstand me if I continue to plead for Otto. I sympathize with you; I can understand how his folly has offended you."

"Offended, do you call it?" Johanna interrupted her. "He has insulted me, and poisoned my life and my soul!"

"So it seems to you now," said her aunt. "But you will learn to regard it differently; you will feel otherwise and judge otherwise. Believe me, my child, Otto is worthy of your forgiveness, and he loves you so – "

Johanna sprang to her feet. "Aunt, I cannot listen to you!" she cried, pressing her hands to her throbbing temples. "You forget that a few hours ago I saw with my own eyes that Otto – that Magelone – And you talk of forgiveness, of love! Oh, everything is hateful in my sight! – life – myself – "

She sank into a chair, and, with a groan, covered her eyes with her hand.

Aunt Thekla shed tears, and, after a long pause, went on: "If you would let me talk to you, I know I could do you good. I do not want to torment you; I only want to repeat Otto's message to you. 'Tell Johanna' – these are his very words; but to appreciate them you should have seen the entreaty in his eyes and heard the tone of his voice – 'tell Johanna that I love her more than ever; that I have loved her from the moment when I first knew her – '"

"Oh, aunt!" Johanna broke in upon her words, "can you tell me that? Can you suppose that can console me? If he had told me that Magelone's charms were irresistible for him, and had extinguished his love for me, I could have understood him, and without reproaching him I should have submitted as to the inevitable. But since he has deceived Magelone and lied to her as he has to me, where shall I look for truth? What can I believe? Where find a stay?"

The old lady had no fitting reply to this. "I wish you could see matters in another light," she said, after a long pause for reflection; "and I hope you will do so in time. But now what is to be done if you refuse Otto's entreaty for forgiveness? Of course my brother must learn nothing of this – "

Johanna looked at her in amazement. "Learn nothing?" she repeated. "You do not suppose that I can marry Otto? Magelone has taken my place."

"Child, I told you that Otto does not love Magelone," Aunt Thekla replied. "And she does not love him, – not enough at least to endure for his sake her grandfather's anger." And, clasping Johanna's hands in her own, the old lady added, with tearful, imploring eyes, "Think what you are doing. The happiness or misery of the whole family is in your hands. If you cannot forgive, Johann Leopold will lose his betrothed, Otto's and Magelone's lives will be ruined, whether they marry or not, and my brother, who has made the happiness and honour of his house his sole care, will see it in his old age brought to disgrace – "

"If I could but spare him!" exclaimed Johanna. Here at last was a word spoken in kindness. Aunt Thekla took courage again. "You can if you choose," she said, and dried her eyes. "Believe me, child, those who forgive are blessed indeed when they can forgive and forget."

"Forgive and forget!" Johanna repeated. "Yes, it would be a blessing; but forgetfulness cannot be forced, and if I could forgive and overcome in myself all bitterness, the old confidence would not return – "

"Only try it!" Aunt Thekla interrupted her. "How many women have forgiven some fickleness or unfaithfulness in their lovers and have been happy wives! Remember, 'Love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.'"

"And 'rejoiceth in the truth,'" Johanna said, her features taking on their former rigidity. "An error might be forgotten, but what separates Otto and myself forever is his falsehood. If you knew how degraded I feel by it; how petty, suspicious, evil-minded it makes me. To shield Magelone and himself from his grandfather's anger he betrothed himself to me; for the same reason he seeks a reconciliation with me now; and perhaps – who knows? – the possession of Tannhagen adds weight to the scale. Tell me yourself, Aunt Thekla, can I regard as my lord and master the man of whom I think thus?"

Johanna arose, went to the window, and drew aside the curtains. There it was again, the pitiless sunshine. It reached her very heart through her eyes, and revealed the lovely and yet terrible picture of the pair beneath the forest shades. If she could but be spared that sight! She would rather see nothing, nothing.

A light touch roused her. Aunt Thekla had followed her, and now laid her hand upon her arm. "What answer shall I take to Otto?" she asked. "Be kind, be sensible. Reflect; the banns are to be published for the first time the day after to-morrow – "

"It must not come to that!" Johanna interrupted her. "Tell Otto that I agree to any method by which he, without implicating Magelone or himself, can dissolve our engagement – "

"You are terrible!" cried Aunt Thekla. "Yours is the obstinacy of our race, only turned against the Dönninghausens. But this cannot be your final decision. You will be calmer; you will see that you must overcome your pride, your just indignation. Stay in your room; I will tell my brother that you need rest, and you must promise me not to be overhasty. Pray promise me this."

"Rest assured I will do nothing that can injure Otto," said Johanna. "As I told you, he himself may arrange everything. I will take the blame of the break upon myself. Now let us say no more about it, dear aunt; I really can no more."

How sad and weary was the face which had been wont to look so fresh and glad! Aunt Thekla's eyes filled with tears. "If I could only do something for you!" she said. "It is dreadful to leave you so alone; but Otto is waiting for an answer – "

"Otto, always Otto!" Johanna thought, bitterly; but the next moment she banished the thought, and replied in a gentler tone than she had used hitherto, "Do not mind me; it is best for me to be alone!"

The old lady still lingered. "I hope you have not misunderstood me. You know I have your happiness at heart."

Johanna fell upon her neck. "You are kind. You will bear with me," she whispered.

Aunt Thekla left her easier in her mind. She would have patience if only the two might be brought together again in the end. And they surely would be if Otto could only plead his own cause. He would do better, perhaps, to-day to leave Johanna to her reflections; to-morrow she would be calmer, more accessible; he could come again then.

But whilst Aunt Thekla was resigning herself to the hope of a reconciliation, and even Otto's doubts were partially overcome, Johanna's condition of mind was the same. She had been thrust forth from her paradise, and even although she should force herself to forgive, it would not affect the dissolution of her engagement.

Yes, all must be changed. To go on in the old way was impossible. What was she to do? Where should she go? To Lindenbad? And it occurred to her that upon her return from her ride a letter from Ludwig had been handed her, or had she dreamed it? No; there it lay upon her writing-table: a thick, soiled envelope, covered with stamps and addresses.

She opened it. It was an old letter, – the one written in answer to the announcement of her betrothal.

Ludwig wrote:

"Dear Johanna, – I know that it is the fashion to reply to the announcement of a betrothal by congratulations, but I should be false to myself and to the love I bear you were I to conceal beneath any set, formal phrases my feelings and opinions upon the present occasion. I trust you have sufficient confidence in me to believe in the honesty of my intentions, even although you differ from me in sentiment.

"Then let these lines warn you, and admonish you to ask yourself more seriously than you have done hitherto whether it is really possible for this man to satisfy your demands upon life, to fill your heart, to understand and keep pace with you? I, who know you better than any one else knows you, I declare that this is not possible, and I pray you to open your eyes before you are irrevocably bound. By marriage with this man you condemn yourself to a life of loneliness and renunciation.

"You know this yourself. Does not your letter, written in the first joy of your betrothal, speak of a 'want' in your happiness? Your recalling of this word afterwards cannot weaken its significance. In your inmost soul you feel that you are about to take a wrong step, and the instinct of your heart, which is 'beyond all reason,' warns you to pause.

"I shall never forgive myself for not being beside you to aid this instinct. I could not but foresee what has happened. I knew how it would be, and I left you in anger, with my self-love grievously wounded, while it was my duty, as well as my right, to say to you, 'You belong to me, and I will not leave you.'

"I say this now, and my life will prove to you how seriously I say it. If you persist in the wretched course which threatens to separate us utterly, I vow solemnly to you, and to myself, that you never again shall hear these words from me, but you will find me whenever and however you may need me.

"It is my own fault that I have lost you. When I went to you at your father's, and found that you had outgrown the atmosphere of my father's house, I thrust you from me in wayward, boyish folly, when I ought to have taken you in my arms and sought to win you from all that estranged you from me.

"Why do I say this to you now? Because I would have you know me thoroughly, and would set you an example of absolute confidence. We human beings should lighten our trials greatly if we shrank less from confessing to ourselves and to others our errors, our defeats, our miscalculations. Let me hope that you are free from the vanity and cowardice that would lead you so to shrink. Do not close your eyes; and if you see that you have been overhasty, redeem the error before it be too late. Above all, do not fancy that you must hold to your plighted troth for your betrothed's sake. As I know him, not all your love can make him happy.

"Will you accuse me of harshness in saying this? Be it so. I cannot look on with a feigned smile, or even in silence, when I see you going to your destruction.

"But can I be mistaken? The fact that this man, amid the puppets by which he has been surrounded, has known how to find the way to you, makes me waver in my estimate of him. Certainly I will not close my mind to a better opinion of him; and should you continue to find him worthy of your love, and should he prove himself capable of appreciating you and of making you happy, I will acknowledge his right to possess you as unhesitatingly as I now challenge it.

"November 10, 1874.

"Since writing the above I have spent days and nights partly in the hospitals, partly in the poorest quarter of Bombay. I have been at home now for several hours, and, refreshed by a bath, sleep, and food, I shall return to my patients as soon as I have despatched this letter. The occupation of these last few weeks – the old, ruinous portion of the city has been attacked by an epidemic – explains the tone of my letter. All shams seem more intolerable to me than ever before. Health of body and mind seems to me a supreme good, and I am consequently forced as well to warn the thoughtless who may be exposing themselves uselessly to the peril of deadly miasma as to undertake the treatment of organizations already diseased. It is in this sense that I send you my note of warning. Harsh as it may sound in your ears, take it as from a physician, without any false sensitiveness. I expect an answer to it only in case my words have made some impression upon you. If you say nothing of this letter, I shall take it for granted that I have been mistaken, or that the truth wearies you, and shall never, unless you yourself desire it, allude to the subject again.

"I am still in doubt as to the time of my return. It was fixed at first for next March or April. If I can be of use to you I will come earlier, – come instantly if you write that you wish me to do so. Otherwise I shall probably remain longer away. And even should I return to Europe, I shall not see my home or yourself until the wound from which I am now suffering is scarred over, or until you need the counsel or aid of your brother Ludwig."

"No, no aid from him!" Johanna said to herself, as she folded the letter again. The thought of letting him know how she suffered was intolerable to her – why she did not know, and did not ask. Not for one moment did she doubt Ludwig's affection, magnanimity, and efficiency, and yet she felt doubly humiliated since reading his verdict with regard to Otto.

"No, no aid from him!" she repeated. But this being so, she could not go to Lindenbad, and where else should she seek an asylum? Ah, how hard it was, besides, to tear herself away from this place, where, in spite of everything, she had found a home! True, it needed but a word from her to insure her this home still, but at what a price! Aunt Thekla was right: her grandfather's last days must not be poisoned. And how could Johanna continue to dwell in the home whose peace she had destroyed, and whose children she had driven forth and made unhappy? She knew, too, that it would pain her grandfather to part from her, but he would find her leaving him 'thanklessly' easier to bear than the discovery that Otto and Magelone were unworthy of his name and his affection. She pondered and reflected, always with the same result. She must go, and upon her must rest the blame of the separation. How she should contrive this, and whither she should turn, she did not know, – but she would discover.

The day passed. Aunt Thekla sent up to inquire after her repeatedly; had food and refreshments taken to her; wanted to know whether she should come herself; but Johanna begged her to let her be alone for the day; and at last, as if crushed in body and mind, she had thrown herself upon her bed.

And then the night drew on, a night without sleep, in which the hours dragged slowly, each throb of her heart seeming to increase the dull pain beneath which her very soul writhed as if in mortal agony. And then the moonlight came, and quivered on the walls and ceiling, as in those lovely nights when each waking moment was delight and each falling asleep again brought sweet dreams. Then the cocks crowed, and the cold, gray light of dawn made all things look more than ever dreary; and then began the shrill, discordant twittering of the sparrows.

Four o'clock struck in the tower of the castle, and immediately afterward a low, shuffling step was heard on the stair, and there was a cautious knock at Johanna's door.

"Who is there?" the young girl asked.

"A telegram for Fräulein Johanna," the housekeeper's voice made reply.

Johanna threw a shawl about her shoulders, received the blue envelope, took it to the window, and read:

"Lisbeth is dangerously ill, and is constantly calling for you. Pray come. Helena."

For a moment the girl felt stunned; then she collected herself. She at once took her resolution. The early train for Hanover left Thalrode at six; she had time to catch it.

She dressed herself, hastily packed up the necessary clothing, and ordered the carriage. Then she wrote a hurried note to Otto: "I have just received a telegram summoning me to Hanover to the bedside of my little sister. I leave by the next train, and thus afford you a plausible excuse for the dissolution of our betrothal. You can scarcely marry a wife from beneath the roof of an 'equestrian artist.' The reconciliation which you proposed to me through Aunt Thekla is impossible. I have lost all confidence in you, and you would never forgive me for the scene in the forest. I must leave you to make the necessary explanations to my grandfather, and I bid you farewell in the fullest sense of the word."

With this letter she went to Aunt Thekla. The old lady was still in bed, but wide awake. She, too, had been unable to sleep from anxiety.

"My child, what does this mean?" she asked, when she saw Johanna appear in her travelling-dress.

Johanna handed her the telegram, told her that she was going instantly to Hanover, and begged her to take charge of the letter for Otto.

"Drive off! without my brother's consent!" Aunt Thekla said, possessed by a foreboding of evil. "How can you? You will come back again soon?"

Johanna turned away. "Do not make my heart heavier than it is," she begged.

Aunt Thekla burst into tears. "You must not go!" she cried, clasping Johanna's hands tightly. "I will not let you go!"

The young girl gently extricated herself. "I must, dear aunt; I must go to Lisbeth," she said.

"But Otto will follow you; will bring you back again."

Johanna shook her head. "He will see that we must part," she whispered. "But do not let me be exiled and quite forgotten; write to me – "

The maid appeared: "Fräulein Johanna, the carriage is waiting."

Once more aunt and niece embraced. "Bid grandpapa a thousand, thousand farewells for me. Try to persuade him to forgive me. Think kindly of me," Johanna sobbed.

Then she hurried out into the corridor, past her grandfather's door, where Leo arose in surprise, and seemed to ask if he might accompany her.

Johanna signed to him to lie down, and, with her handkerchief pressed to her lips, hurried down the stairs, and threw herself into a corner of the carriage; the door was closed, the horses started. Her dream of love and happiness was at an end.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE FREIHERR ASSERTS HIS AUTHORITY

When the Freiherr heard of Johanna's departure, he had for the moment no thought save of the insult it offered to his authority. But when his first anger had passed away, he said to himself that it might mean something more than merely anxiety for her little sister. Johanna's absence from meals on the previous day, Otto's conduct, Thekla's distressed face, all taken together suggested to the Freiherr some disagreement between the lovers. He determined to question Otto himself upon the subject, and made Tannhagen the goal of his morning ride.

When half-way there, he met Otto. Aunt Thekla had sent him Johanna's note, and he was betaking himself to consult with her as to what was to be done. He was startled when at a turn of the road he perceived the tall figure of the Freiherr upon his gray gelding. He could not avoid him, so, summoning all his courage, he rode towards him.

"Do you know that Johanna has gone off?" his grandfather asked him after their first salutations, and as he spoke his gaze seemed to pierce the young man's very soul.

"So she writes me," he replied, trying in vain to appear indifferent under the Freiherr's gaze.

"Indeed! I should like to know something more about it. Ride back with me to Dönninghausen," said the Freiherr, turning his horse that way. "And now, frankly, what has occurred between you?"

"Really, sir, I do not know. I should not like to accuse – " Otto stammered.

"Have I asked you to?" the Freiherr exclaimed, impatiently. "I only wish to know whether the silly child's flight is your fault; and if it is, you will go after her and bring your foolish lady fair back again."

Otto was startled. "Indeed, sir – " he began, hesitatingly.

The Freiherr interrupted him: "Deuce take you, lad, what kind of a face is that to wear? You look as if I were sending you after the devil's grandmother instead of in pursuit of a silly child who has wellnigh lost, on your account, the atom of woman's wit that she possessed!" Then he added, more seriously, "You can tell her that this time mercy shall wait on justice, but there must be no more escapades. Of course you must have your quarrels, – lovers cannot live without them, – but you will please to keep them to yourselves. I beg you to arrange them so that I and the peace of my household shall not be implicated."

For a while they rode along silently side by side. Otto, who had been too self-occupied to have any correct idea of Johanna's state of mind, had read her note with mingled astonishment and indignation. He did not divine the pain concealed beneath the apparent calm of her words; he only saw that she could give him up. He thought her conduct hard, cold, and selfish, and he held himself absolved by the scandal she had caused from all duties towards her, and entirely justified in exculpating himself as best he might. She had expressly required that he should give their grandfather a credible explanation of their separation. He would do so.

"My dear grandfather," he said, after he had taken time for reflection, "as matters stand, I find to my regret that I must acquaint you somewhat with the cause of the present disagreement between Johanna and myself."

"Be brief, then!" the Freiherr exclaimed. "Give me the principal facts. I cannot stand childish bickerings."

"Just as you please," Otto replied, his task thus made more easy. "The first as well as the last cause is Johanna's position with regard to her step-mother's unfortunate second marriage. I require her to break at once and forever with the family of the 'equestrian artist.' She refuses to do so, and takes the first opportunity that offers to bid defiance to my wishes and requests."

"Nonsense!" the Freiherr cried, angrily. "I ought to have been told this. But she can be brought to reason. You can go for her – "

"To the house of a circus-rider! Never!" Otto declared, with an amount of resolution that the next moment surprised himself.

His grandfather's eyes flashed, but he seemed to reflect before saying, "There is something in that." And then, after another pause, he added, "We will write. I will give her the choice between Dönninghausen and these people, and you can tell her whatever seems to you just and kind. If she should then perceive her folly, let the whole stupid affair be forgotten."

They rode the rest of the way in silence. As soon as they reached Dönninghausen, the Freiherr seated himself at his writing-table, and wrote thus:

"Dear Johanna, – When my sister told me of your departure this morning, I thought you wanting in respect to leave us as you did, without asking my permission, especially as you were going to people with whom I do not wish to have the slightest degree of intercourse. By way of excuse for you, I reflected that anxiety for your little sister had probably caused you to disregard for the moment the duty you owe to me and to the rules of my household. I take a different view of the matter now that I learn that your intercourse with the family of this circus-rider has been for some time the cause of serious disagreement between Otto and yourself. At first he was reluctant to explain, but upon my urgent desire to know the truth he has told me all. You know, my child, how much I love you, and how willing I am to have you act as you see fit; but here you are wrong and must submit. The honour of our family requires that you should sever all former ties. Come back, then, as soon as you can. Otto, whom I wished to send for you, declares that he cannot take you from the house of a circus-rider, which proves to me that he is more of a Dönninghausen than I thought him. In your veins also flows the blood of our race, and I expect you to show yourself worthy of it. In spite of your mother's errors we have received you into the family as one of us, and we must now require you to have no further connection with your father's former wife and her child. Only explain to Otto that you are ready to agree to this, and all will be smooth again between you. Should your step-sister be seriously ill, I do not require you to leave her immediately; but you must do so as soon as you are relieved concerning her, and in the mean time you will carefully avoid appearing in public with any member of the circus-rider's family. Answer particularly at what time you intend to return, and accept the cordial good wishes of your affectionate grandfather,

"Johann Freiherr V. Dönninghausen."

The Freiherr gave this letter to Otto to read and to supplement, saying, "I have told the silly child what I require without circumlocution; now you can sweeten the pill of obedience to her as you please. You need not tone down what you want to say. I will not read what you write. Love-letters are interesting only to those for whom they are composed."

Would he have considered the following a love-letter? —

"Your hasty departure, dear Johanna, has unfortunately still further complicated matters. If you only would have granted me an interview, you would have forgiven me, I feel sure, and the delightful relations existing between our grandfather and yourself need not have been disturbed by any discord. But I have no idea of reproaching you. I only entreat you, as earnestly as I can, to deliver me from the false position you have forced me to take to our grandfather. One word of forgiveness and a promise to return, and all will be well. Think of the happy hours we have passed together, of the fair future that lies before us, and believe in the repentance and love of your