"Does that thought comfort you?" asked Ernestine, shaking her head.

"Oh, yes, it is all that I desire. Those who, like yourself, my child, pa.s.s through life with all sails set, have no idea of the restraint which those in our cla.s.s must gradually learn to put upon themselves in order not to despair. Yet in this very restraint, in this perpetual narrow round of duties that life a.s.signs us, there is happiness, a content that routine always brings. You may say that routine blunts the faculties,--but, for the most part, it only seems to do so. A nature strong from within will thrust its roots deep into the soil of its abiding-place with the same force that enables it to grasp the universe, and if you should attempt to tear it thence in its old age, you would almost tear its life away also. I love the little spot of ground and the little house that have been the world to me. I believe I should die if I had to leave them."

Ernestine listened thoughtfully. "Well, then, if I may not offer you a support, I can at least offer your son the means of pursuing his studies. My library, my apparatus, are at his disposal. I hope he will not refuse to make use of them in his leisure hours."

"That indeed is a favor that I accept most gladly, although I can never hope to repay it! I thank you in my son's name. You will know the happiness of having restored to a human being what he most prizes,--his hopes for the future."

"You amaze me more and more," cried Ernestine with warmth, "as you afford me an insight into the depth and cultivation of your mind. What self mastery it must have cost you to live here among these savages!"

The old man smiled. "Living among them, one gradually grows like them in some things, and is no longer shocked. At first, to be sure, I thought myself too good for them. But my faith soon taught me that no one is too good for the post G.o.d has a.s.signed him. When I was a student I delighted in the theatres, and visited them frequently. Once, as I was leaving the manager's room, I heard him lamenting the obstinacy of one of his corps. 'He utterly refuses to take a subordinate part. Good heavens! they cannot all play princ.i.p.al parts!' The man never dreamed of the serious lesson he had taught me. 'All cannot play princ.i.p.al parts,' I said to myself whenever the demon of arrogance a.s.sailed me, and I gave myself, heart and soul, to the subordinate role that had fallen to me on the stage of life. I soon desired no better lot than to hear some day my Master's 'Well done, good and faithful servant!'"

"All cannot play first parts," murmured Ernestine. "I too, Father Leonhardt, will ponder these words." She sat silent for awhile, then pa.s.sed her hand across her brow. "No! to be nothing but a subordinate, a figure that appears only to vanish again, occupying attention for one moment, but just as well away,--no, that I could not endure!" She sprang up, and walked to and fro.

"My dear Fraulein----"

"Father, call me Ernestine,--it is so pleasant to hear one's first name from those whom one values."

"Certainly, if you desire it. Then, my dear Ernestine, I was going to answer you by saying that no one who fulfils the duties of life conscientiously is 'as well away.' As far as the world is concerned, it may be so; but we must not seek to have the world for our public, or to find the sole delight of life in its applause. It is not modest to imagine one's self an extraordinary person, destined to enchain the attention of nations upon the stage of the world."

Ernestine blushed deeply.

Leonhardt continued: "Every one finds a.s.sociates amongst whom to play a princ.i.p.al part, and in whose applause satisfaction is to be found. For these few he is no subordinate, for them he does not 'appear only to vanish again.' Is not a wife, or a husband, to whom one may be everything, worth living for?"

"Only for persons, Father Leonhardt, who have never so soared above their surroundings as to find the centre of their being in the life of the mind and what pertains to it. Those who have so far forgotten themselves as to make the interests of the world their own, can only live with and for the world, and it is as impossible for them to be content in a narrow round of private satisfactions as for the plant to retreat into the seed whence it sprung."

"Indeed, Ernestine?" cried a familiar voice behind her.

She turned, startled. Johannes had been listening on the threshold to the conversation. He was evidently in a state of feverish agitation.

His chest heaved pa.s.sionately as he approached. "Would you escape me thus--thus?" He took her hand, and his eyes sought hers, as if to dive into the depths of her soul in search of the pearl of love deeply hidden there. There was a fervent appeal in his glance,--he clasped her hand, and every breath was an entreaty, every throb of his heart a remonstrance. Pain, anxiety, and the haste of pursuit so shook him that he trembled. Ernestine saw, heard, felt it all, but she stood mute and motionless,--she could not open her lips or utter a sound,--she was as if stunned. "Ernestine!" Johannes cried again, "Ernestine!" The tone went to her very soul,--a low moan escaped her lips,--she inclined her head towards his breast, and would have fallen into his arms,--but a shadow, the shadow of his mother, stepped in between them and darkened Ernestine's eyes so that she no longer saw the n.o.ble figure before her, or the tears of tenderness in his eyes. All around her was cold and dim, as when clouds veil the sun,--his mother's shadow scared her from his heart.

She raised her head, and slowly withdrew her hand from his.

His arms dropped hopelessly. A moment of utter exhaustion followed his previous emotion. He put his handkerchief to his forehead, that seemed moist with blood. His veins throbbed,--there was a loud singing in his ears,--he could hardly stand. He exerted all his self-control, and went towards Leonhardt.

"G.o.d strengthen you, Herr Leonhardt!" he said in broken sentences. "I know it all from your messenger to your son, whom I met on the road. I need not offer to console you,--you are a man, and will endure like a man."

"I am a Christian, my dear Herr Professor, and that stands to feeble age in the stead of manhood!"

"True, true!" said Johannes with a troubled glance at Ernestine. She approached, and said in a trembling voice,

"Father Leonhardt, I must say farewell to you now and go home. When your son comes, send him to me." She offered Mollner her hand. "Forgive me, I could not help it!"

Johannes mastered his emotion, and said, with apparent composure, "I shall write to you."

Ernestine silently a.s.sented, and went. The old man listened. He heard her retreating footsteps and Johannes' labouring breath, and again he saw for all his blind eyes.

"Oh, Herr Professor, do not let her go. Follow her quickly, and let all be explained. Believe me, she is an angel. Grudge her no words. There is no use in writing,--her uncle can intercept all her letters. Spoken words are safest and best. Quick, quick, or you may both be wretched!"

"Thanks, old friend, you are right!" cried Johannes, all aglow again; and, before the words were well uttered, he was gone.

Frau Brigitta entered with the soup, and looked after him in surprise.

"The gentleman seems in a hurry!" said she.

"Let him go, mother dear. These young people are struggling, amid a thousand fears and anxious hopes, for a goal that we old people have long gazed back upon contentedly. G.o.d guide them!"

Johannes called to his coachman to await his return before the school-house, and followed Ernestine, who was slowly pursuing the foot-path directly before him. All was quiet and lonely around, for it was noon, and the peasants were at dinner.

She looked round upon hearing Johannes' step behind her, and stood still. He soon overtook her.

"Ernestine," he said resolutely, "I must have a final, decisive word with you, and Leonhardt is right,--it should go from heart to heart.

Will you listen to me?"

He drew her arm through his, and as they talked they slowly approached the eminence upon which stood the castle.

"Ernestine, dear Ernestine, I would give all that I have that the scene between you and my mother, this morning, had never been. You have been mortally offended, and that, too, while you were my guest in a house whither you had fled for refuge, and that should have been a home to you. But it happened in my absence,--it was not my fault. Will you make me suffer for it?"

"No, my friend, certainly not."

"Well, then, be magnanimous and forgive my mother, although she never can forgive herself!"

"I have nothing to forgive."

"You are implacable in your righteous anger. Let me hope that the time may come when my mother may atone for what she said to you to-day.

Dearest Ernestine, she startled back your young heart, just awakening to its truest instincts; it was a poor preparation for what I wished to say to you to-day, and yet,--and yet I must speak,--I can be silent no longer. Yes, Ernestine, I wished to-day to ask you to be my wife. I wished to entreat of you the sacrifice that marriage demands of every woman, and of you more especially; and I firmly believe that if you could have listened first to my views of the duties and the lot of a wife, they would not have seemed to you as terrible as from the lips of my practical mother. I hope to be able to shield you from the hard materialism of life that so alarms you, and to which my mother attaches too much importance. My white rose shall not be planted in a kitchen-garden. You shall be the pride and ornament of my life. I ask nothing from you but love for my heart, sympathy in my scientific pursuits, and allowance for my faults." He took her hand in his, and stood still. "Ernestine, will you not give me these?"

With bated breath he waited for her reply. In vain his glance sought her eyes beneath their drooping lids.

Ernestine stood motionless in marble-like repose, and no human being could divine what was pa.s.sing in the depths of her soul. At last her pale lips breathed scarcely audibly: "I cannot,--your mother,--I cannot----"

"Oh, if you cannot love me, do not make her bear the blame, do not overwhelm her with the curse of having robbed her son of the joy of his life,--that were too severe a punishment! And, if you do love me, conquer your pride n.o.bly by showing her how she has mistaken you. Show her all the woman in you, and prove to her that you are capable of self-sacrifice, and revenge could not desire for her more profound humiliation."

"I cannot make the sacrifice that she demands; and if I could I would not, because she _demands_ it and makes it a condition. A soul that is free will not barter away its convictions and its aims, even though the happiness of a lifetime is at stake. When your mother asks me to resign my plan of achieving an academic career, and to bury the immature fruits of all my labours, she is excusable, for she does not dream what she asks; but when you propose such conditions, you can, not only never be my husband,--you can no longer be my friend, for you do not understand me."

"Good G.o.d, Ernestine! what do I ask of you more than what every man asks of the woman whom he wishes to marry,--that she shall live for him alone? And how can you do this if you do not relinquish your ambition and be content with a private life? You need not relinquish science, you shall be my confidante, my aid in all my labours, my friend, sharing all my plans and hopes. Only do not any longer seek publicity, do not try to obtain a degree or deliver lectures. No opprobrium or contempt must dare attach itself to the pure name of my wife."

Ernestine started as if struck by an arrow. "Those are your mother's very words. What? Do you, who a.s.sume such superiority to woman, condescend to repeat phrases taught you by your mother?"

"Ernestine, you are unjust. You have long known my views concerning the position of woman, and you cannot expect that I should be false to my most sacred convictions at what is the most important moment of my life."

"And yet you require this of me?"

"A woman's convictions, Ernestine, are always dependent upon her feelings in such matters. And where feeling is concerned, the stronger must always conquer the weaker. Hitherto you have been moved only by the wrongs of your s.e.x,--they are all that you have known anything of.

When you love, you will learn to know its joys, and be all the more ready to resign your vain championship for your husband's sake."

"Do you think so?" asked Ernestine with unaccustomed irony.

"I hope so. It is our only chance for happiness. I am true to you, and tell you beforehand what I look for from you. I will not influence your decision by flattery or false acquiescence. It must be formed in full view of the duties it imposes upon you, or it will be worthless. You may think this a rude fashion to be wooed in, and perhaps you are right. But I will not win my wife by those arts which woman's vanity has made such powerful aids to the lover. I will not owe my wife to a weakness,--and vanity certainly is a weakness. Your love for me must be all strength. I would have you great indeed when you give yourself to me,--and when is a woman greater than when she conquers her pride and herself for love's sake? In her self-conquest she accomplishes what heroes, who have subdued nations, have found too hard a task, for it requires the greatest human effort. It is true, the world will not shout applause,--deeds truly great often shun the eyes of the mult.i.tude: in the renunciation of all acknowledgment there is a joy known only to a few. Within quiet convent walls, past which the stream of human life flows heedlessly, many a victory over self has been attained that was never rewarded by a single earthly laurel. What awaits the end of the painful contest? The grave! But I ask of you, Ernestine, far less of sacrifice, and surely there is a reward to reap in bestowing perfect happiness upon one who loves you. Do you hesitate?

Is the struggle not ended? Can your royal soul not cast aside the self-imposed chains of false ambition? Oh, Ernestine, do not let me implore you further; say only one word,--to whom will you belong,--to your uncle, or to me?"