Leuthold regarded her immovable features with a mixture of fear and hatred, and thought to himself, "Once let me get you on the other side of the water, and in my power, and you shall atone bitterly for all the trouble that you give me now."

And his restless fancy painted vividly before his mind's eye the revenge that awaited him in that new world, and an ugly smile was upon his lips as he thought of all that his niece's proud nature would have to endure.

Ernestine arose. "There are only a few hours left before our departure," she said. "I must be sure that my intentions will be carried out."

She went into her laboratory, and packed up, as well as she could, the apparatus that she designed for Walter. Then she reopened the letter that she was to leave with Willmers for Leonhardt, and added these words, "Come what may, I pray you preserve these books and instruments for me as relics. Say they are yours, or they will be s.n.a.t.c.hed from you and from me."

Thus she made her gift secure from the clutches of the law. She knew Leuthold well enough to feel sure that he would not seek to prevent its removal from the house if he could not keep it for his niece. Then she sent off the chests from the laboratory, and went into the library to select the books that Walter was to have. Leuthold hurried in, and said to her, "Mollner is coming! Now, Ernestine, summon up all your resolution!" His teeth fairly chattered with agitation. "Be strong, Ernestine. A human life is at stake! If you do not save me from Mollner's revenge and from the law, I am a dead man! By the life of my child,--dearer to me than aught else on earth,--I swear to you that I will commit suicide sooner than put on a convict's jacket! Now act accordingly."

Ernestine gazed at him with horror. At last he was speaking the truth!

Sheer, blank despair was painted on his features.

"Uncle," she cried, "be calm! I will not drive you to suicide! My resolve is firm. Will you not be present?"

"No, that would make mischief. I will get everything ready for our departure, that nothing may detain us. Do not forget. We are reconciled,--do you hear? Will you tell him so?"

"I promise you."

"I will go. I will not meet him. Bless you for every kind word, and curses upon you if you should betray me."

He hurried away, and Ernestine looked after him with a shudder. A human life hung upon her lips! A curse awaited every thoughtless word that she might utter! She stood alone and helpless, burdened thus heavily, a young, inexperienced creature, scarcely able to bear the responsibility of her own actions. She spurred on her fainting energies to accomplish the almost superhuman task allotted to her.

Her dreaded visitor entered.

"Forgive me, Ernestine," he said, "for thus intruding unannounced. Your housekeeper directed me hither. This is no time for empty formalities.

It is time for action, and, if need be, for a life-and-death struggle.

I have just seen the chests sent off to Herr Leonhardt. I learn from Frau Willmers that you are going,--really going,--with your uncle.

Ernestine, I have no words for the anguish that I am now enduring! I could submit to your rejection of my suit, for I might still love you, but to find you unworthy of my love, Ernestine, would be more than I can bear."

"And what could so degrade me in your eyes?" asked Ernestine with offended pride.

"Your not fleeing from such a villain, as from the Evil One himself,--your harbouring the intention of going forth into the world with one abhorred alike of G.o.d and man, not feeling sufficient detestation of the crime to induce you to avoid the criminal who must be shunned by every honest man. Oh, Ernestine, I cannot believe it now!

I would rather die than believe it!"

"He has excused himself in my eyes," said Ernestine, deeply wounded.

"He has convinced me that no human being should condemn another unheard. I am not conscious of such perfection and infallibility in myself as would permit me to dare to judge and denounce. That must be left for those better and stronger than I. The tie that bound me to him is, it is true, broken, but I must tread the same path that he treads.

I cannot refuse to share his wanderings."

"Do you not fear the disgrace that will attach to you by thus joining your lot with that of a criminal, amenable to the law?"

"The law has no power over him. He has satisfied me with regard to my property, and, if I am content, it is enough."

"Good heavens! What security has he offered you? You are so inexperienced in such matters, he will deceive you again. Tell me, at least, what he has told you."

Ernestine stood more erect. Agitation almost choked her utterance, and, to conceal it, she put on a colder, sterner manner than usual. "When I tell you I am satisfied, it seems to me that should content you."

"Ernestine," cried Johannes, "why do you adopt this tone with me? I am acting and thinking only for you and your interest, and you treat me like a foe."

"For all that you have done and are doing for me, I am grateful to you, as also for your kind intentions. But now, I pray you, leave to me all care for my future fate. I feel fully competent to direct it."

"I tell you, Ernestine, that, whether you will it or not, I must s.n.a.t.c.h you from the abyss upon whose brink you are tottering. And first I will make sure of your companion. He has not given me the securities for your property that I required, the respite that I allowed him is past, the twenty-four hours for reflection have gone." He turned towards the door.

"Dr. Mollner, what are you about to do?" cried Ernestine.

"Give him up to justice."

Ernestine placed herself in his way. "You must not do that!"

"And why not?"

"You will not attempt to avenge what I have forgiven. You will not so intrude into my life as to make it impossible for me to decide whether I will punish or forgive a crime that affects me alone. You are about to publish abroad my affairs, and I demand for myself the right to regulate my own private affairs as it may seem to me best. I cannot allow a stranger--yes, I say, a stranger--to meddle thus with the concerns of two human beings, as if he were an emissary of the Holy Vehm!"

"Ernestine!" gasped Johannes.

"I repeat it," she continued, "I am grateful for your kind intentions.

But the best intentions result in unwelcome violence when they would rob a human being, of the right of free choice. I insist upon this most sacred of all rights, and forbid you any further interference with my fate, and, as my uncle's lot is so closely allied to mine that in striking him you would harm me, I hope you are sufficiently chivalric to desist from further persecution of him." Almost fainting, she leaned against the door.

"Fraulein von Hartwich," replied Johannes, controlling himself with difficulty, "you propose a hard trial for my patience. But I can forgive you, for you are a true woman." Ernestine started at these words, but he entreated silence by a gesture. "You are a woman, and, as such, easily aroused, easily deceived. Your uncle has taken advantage of this fact. You do not dream what you are doing in following the fortunes of this bad man. I thought I had opened your eyes yesterday, but I was mistaken. You saw, but I did not teach you to understand what you saw. I will retrieve my error. I will explain to you the motives for your uncle's course of action."

"I have already told you," replied Ernestine, "that I know them. I need no further explanation. He has sinned, grievously sinned,--who can deny it? Not he himself. But his life has been dedicated to me with a devotion rare enough in our selfish world. He has lived for me ever since I was a child, and all his errors sprang from the dread of losing me. This is, perhaps, incredible to you, because from your point of view it is inconceivable that a man should entirely give himself up to the training of a woman's mind. To you a life spent solely in intellectual a.s.sociation with a woman seems impossible, and of course you would accuse of falsehood a man who professes to prefer such a life to all others. Therefore I know beforehand all you would say, and would be spared the listening to it now."

"Ernestine," cried Johannes, fairly roused, "you must hear me, or, by Heaven, I do not know you!"

He paused for one moment. Ernestine looked down, and apparently awaited what he had to say.

"Yes, then, yes,--you are perfectly right. It does seem to me an impossibility that a man should make it the sole aim of his existence to develop the intellect of a woman. I can love as deeply as man can love. You know that I love you, and, were you mine, I would adore you, and you only, with my whole heart and soul, truly and unchangeably, until death separated us. But, in my love for you, to forego all other interests and duties in life, to idle away in delicious intercourse with you all opportunities for true manly exertion,--that I could not do, truly and warmly as I love you. It would be the part of a woman,--not of a man, who has public as well as private duties to fulfil. I have no confidence in a man who pretends to lead such a life out of simple affection for a relative. He must have some other purpose in view, and I believe that your uncle's purpose in this matter was a detestable one, leading him to sin against you in a way that G.o.d alone can justly punish. He would sacrifice everything for money--he would murder alike body and soul. Stay--be calm for a few moments. I will justify these terrible accusations. The theft of your fortune has been the purpose that he has kept steadily in view ever since he was your guardian. The possession of this property seems to have been the fixed idea of his life, for he induced your father at one time to bequeath it to him, leaving you, notwithstanding his boasted affection for you, only what the law accords to you. Heim prevailed upon your father to destroy this will and to reinstate you in your rights. But he was not sufficiently prudent, for the will that your father then dictated left too much margin for your uncle's administration. He longed to recover what he had lost, and circ.u.mstances favoured his desire. Your father, in his will, as you can see from this copy of it, stated that in case of your dying unmarried your entire fortune should go to Gleissert or his children. When your father died, matters looked propitious for Leuthold, for little Ernestine was such a frail, sickly child that he cherished a hope almost amounting to a certainty that the delicate cord of life that kept him from his inheritance would soon break, and give him all that he coveted. But the pale, quiet child confounded his plans by recovering her health Und strength. Hers was a rare nature, and recuperated quickly, both physically and mentally. The hope that she would die grew fainter and fainter, but he could not so easily relinquish the prospect of possessing her fortune. If he might not secure the inheritance, he could at least secure the person of the heir, and contrive to keep you, Ernestine, from marrying, since the money could be his only in the event of your dying single. To this end, you must be secluded from the world, and, that you might not miss its amus.e.m.e.nts, your restless spirit must be introduced to a new realm,--the realm of the intellect. Therefore he studiously concealed from you your coming of age, lest it should occur to you to break the bonds of the strict control to which you were subjected, and mingle with your kind. This was the plan of your education, this the reason of your uncle's tender solicitude for you. The time and trouble expended upon you were all in the way of business, a fair exchange for the ninety thousand thalers and the contingent advantages that he trusted to obtain thereby. He could never have attained such a competency as a German professor. This is criminal legacy-hunting. And now for my accusation of murder. I do not mean by it a murder with poison or dagger,--he is too cowardly and too prudent for that,--but he made use of a poison which, if it were not as quick in its effects as a.r.s.enic, at least possessed this advantage over it--no chemist could detect it, and no law punish its use. The body was to be destroyed through the mind. He knew how to foster in your pa.s.sionate heart an ambition that dreaded no labour, that, in its burning desire to attain its ends, pursued them with a feverish haste that never heeded whether the physical frame were equal or not to such unceasing exertion. Oh, the plan was ingenious, but there were eyes, thank G.o.d! that saw through it. It is true he did not stand at your back with a rod, like a severe schoolmaster, to urge you on,---he did not compel you to work all night long, denying yourself the only refreshment that could strengthen your shattered nerves,--sleep,--but he contrived that you should do all this voluntarily. He saw you droop, and took no notice of it. He would not kill you with his own hand, but he put into yours the poison with which you should do it yourself, and, when the natural love of life in you spoke out and entreated aid, he forbade you to summon a physician, lest he should save you by an antidote! Thus, consciously and voluntarily, he has let you sicken and languish, and now he would carry you to America to bury you there. So much for the grounds of my accusation of physical murder. And now as to his murder of your soul. I said before that your uncle had secluded you from the world to make sure of your never marrying. How could he do this? By making you an object of aversion to society at large--by hardening your heart, so that you might never feel the desire for loving intercourse and companionship stirring within you. He accomplished these ends by making you a skeptic. And were this the only crime that he is guilty of towards you, it would justify any punishment, however severe,--any contempt, however profound."

"If this is all that you have to say, I can only reply that you talk like a theologian, not like a physiologist," said Ernestine, vainly endeavouring to conceal her horror. "It is possible that there is some foundation for your other accusations of Doctor Gleissert,--I will not decide upon them at present,--but for this last there is none, or, at least, none in the degree that you mean. Yes, he did take from me my faith, but in its place he gave me that philosophy which is the resting-place of all thought, and wherein alone the doubting spirit can find peace."

"Oh, what a miserable mistake!" cried Johannes. "Do you suppose that anything can take the place of faith in the world? Can a soul as lofty as your own be content with the mere knowledge of the laws that rule the universe, without raising reverential eyes to the Power whom those laws represent? Forgive me if I talk like a theologian. Let me be clear with you upon this point too, before we part. I would at least restore to you one possession of which your uncle has robbed you, and that belongs to women in an eminent degree, far more than to men,--the power of seeing heaven open when the earth does not suffice us!"

Ernestine gazed at him in utter amazement: "Do you speak thus, you, a man of exact science,--a science that teaches how everything in existence is developed from itself! What is left for us to reverence in the G.o.d whom you would seem to declare, after we have learned that nature of itself alone creates and achieves everything?"

Johannes shook his head. "Oh, Ernestine, can we believe in Him only by believing that his Spirit hovered over the face of the waters and created the heavens and the earth in six days? I think we have learned to separate this gross material representation from the actual being of G.o.d! Thus only can faith and knowledge join hands, and I am one of those in whose minds they have thus formed an alliance, although perhaps not without a struggle. I can give my belief no concrete shape, I have not the simplicity that is satisfied with a Deity compounded of human attributes and powers, but the fervent aspiration that looks up and holds fast to my formless G.o.d,--this aspiration is my rock of safety."

"That is only a subjective emotion. What does it prove?"

"Nothing!" said Johannes. "For the existence of a G.o.d can be as little proved as disproved. I might say He is to the world what the soul is to the body, and we cannot give form to the soul in our minds. The organs of the body work in obedience to unchangeable laws, but, although they thus work, they are under the control of the soul, and, although we can explain never so exactly the mechanism that the soul puts in motion at its good pleasure, we cannot explain how it thinks and desires. Are we therefore to deny that it does think and desire? But I know what little value will attach to such comparisons in your eyes, for you will demand logical proof of the truth of my parallel, and this I cannot give you."

Ernestine was lost in thought. "I never should have conceived it possible that such a man as you are could believe in the existence of a G.o.d!"

"If you will listen, I will tell you how faith first entered into my heart. I was a wayward lad, just emanc.i.p.ated from the ignorant illusions of childhood, with a living desire for the Infinite in my heart,--longing to prove scientifically the existence of the G.o.d in whom I no longer believed. In my ignorance of myself, I naturally fell into the way of that spurious philosophy which the science of to-day looks back upon with contempt, and--to use Du Bois' words--racked my brain for awhile over the riddle of Being, human and divine. My affections were warm,--I loved those belonging to me, and especially my little sister Angelika. One day the child was taken dangerously ill, and, as she was more devoted to me than to any other member of the family, I watched with her through long nights with fraternal tenderness. The child suffered greatly, and one night in particular her cries fairly broke my heart. My mother at last took her little hands in her own, clasped them, and said, 'Pray, my darling,--pray to G.o.d. He may grant your prayer!' And the child, suppressing her sobs, cried, 'Ah, dear G.o.d, take away my pain!' And I--I flung myself upon my knees and prayed fervently, I knew not what,--I knew not to whom,--no matter! I prayed. I heard my mother's voice say Amen, and I repeated Amen,--almost unconsciously. The child was soothed, grew calm, looked up to heaven with childlike trust, then smiled upon us and went to sleep with her head upon my breast,--her first sound sleep after a week of suffering. I listened to her breathing, it was soft and regular. I was filled then with an emotion such as I had never before experienced,--tears came to my eyes. I could have embraced the world in my delight,--no, a world would not suffice me, I needed a G.o.d beside.

What shall I say,--how explain it in words? Like the girl born blind, in the poem, that believed she _saw_ when she _loved_, I loved the G.o.d to whom I had prayed, and because I loved Him I saw Him with my heart!"

He paused, and looked at Ernestine, who had listened with sympathy.

"That is the very essence of faith," he continued. "No reason can give it to you or take it from you. One single agonized moment taught me what science and philosophy had failed to teach. I found by the bedside of a child the G.o.d for whom my intellect had vainly searched earth and skies. From this time I learned to keep myself open to conviction. I now first became an exact physiologist. I no longer set fantastic bounds to science, I no longer adulterated my pure contemplation of nature with metaphysical notions, but confined myself strictly to the actual, and it never conflicted with my feelings, for Science itself pauses before the first cause of all Being, and says, 'Thus far, and no farther,' and here, where my knowledge ceases, my faith begins!"