"Remember sometimes to give me a smile,--will you not? I shall wait for it from minute to minute and from hour to hour."

"You shall not wait in vain. How could I refuse to gratify a wish of yours?"

And with these words, that were more to the young man than she herself dreamed of, she left him, and entered the sick-room with her heart filled with mingled joy and pain.

Johannes was kneeling by the bed, his forehead leaning upon Ernestine's arm, that was hanging down outside the coverlet. His mother gave Gretchen a kindly nod. No one ventured to speak. Ernestine seemed asleep.

Gretchen sat down beside the Staatsrathin and gratefully pressed her offered hand.

Thus they sat for an hour, motionless, and then Ernestine had a fresh access of delirium. Her whole illness seemed to be only a vain effort of nature to banish the evil, unnatural ideas nestling in her brain like destructive parasites. At last Johannes induced his mother and Willmers to take a little rest while he and Gretchen watched. He suffered so much at the sight of Ernestine's sufferings that it was a relief to him to know that his mother was not in the room,--his mother, in whose presence his affection forced him to exercise such difficult self-control.

Gretchen was a faithful a.s.sistant, although the poor child's heart was well-nigh broken at the constant reference to her father that filled Ernestine's ravings. Fragments of the past were brought to light, detached scenes rehea.r.s.ed incoherently, but running through all the unfortunate daughter could perceive the dark crimson thread of her father's guilt.

The hot tears coursed down her cheeks. Johannes never noticed them. He had eyes and ears only for Ernestine. The poor orphaned child felt alone indeed. But no! How could she entertain such a thought? Had she not a friend and protector near? And had she not promised to bestow a kindly glance now and then upon the faithful sentinel? How could she forget him for one moment? While Johannes stood by Ernestine, she softly opened the door and looked out. There he sat, his eyes full of expectation, and a bright smile broke over his face at the sight of Gretchen. He started up and tore a leaf, upon which he had been writing, out of his note-book.

"Gretchen," he whispered, "here is something for you. Take it, as it is meant,--kindly. You are having a hard night. I can imagine all you are suffering. Do not forget that there is one sitting here thinking of and for you."

Gretchen held out her hand, and he put the paper into it.

"I thank you, even before I know what it contains," she whispered in reply. "It must be something kind, since it comes from you." And she re-entered the sickroom and seated herself by the table upon which the night-lamp stood. She shivered, for Ernestine's words were all full of horror. But she held a talisman in her hand, and Hilsborn's handwriting banished all haunting sorrow. She unfolded the paper and read:

"Weep, poor heart, and yet again Breathe those gentle songs of sadness, Not for thee are notes of gladness, Softly fall thy tears like rain.

Look to heaven when woes thus move thee, From the eternal stars above thee Comfort seek in earthly pain.

"Weep, poor heart, when all in vain Thou hast hoped for rest from sadness, When the stars rain down no gladness.

Yet despair not! once again Lift thine eyes when sorrow moves thee, In the eyes of one who loves thee, Comfort seek in earthly pain."

Gretchen sat with hands folded, looking at these words, that arched a new heaven above her and revealed a new earth around her. Large as her young heart was, it seemed all too narrow for the flood of tenderness that filled it now. She arose once more, and glided from the room. To Johannes, who gazed after her absently, it seemed as if her airy figure actually diffused a light around it.

In the next room she approached Hilsborn, silently, her eyes suffused with tears, and held out her hand. He looked up at her with imploring entreaty, saw how she was agitated, and that her heart was beating almost to suffocation. He gently drew her nearer and nearer to him, until, like ripened wheat awaiting the reaper's scythe, she sank into his arms, and burst into tears. But her tears were like the glittering drops that the breeze shakes from the trees after a summer rain.

"In the eyes of one who loves thee, Comfort seek in earthly pain,"

echoed in the hearts of the lovers.

Then Ernestine's voice came ringing through the open door. "What is the end? Eternal night, eternal silence, and eternal solitude!"

"Oh, not eternal bliss!" Gretchen breathed softly to herself.

CHAPTER IX.

IT IS MORNING AGAIN.

A call from Mollner to Gretchen separated the young people before they found words to express what they felt. Ernestine grew so much worse in the course of the night that Gretchen did not leave her again. When at last the rays of the rising sun shone through the heavy curtains of the room, the Staatsrathin released the poor child from her painful watch, and she was free to hasten to her lover. He drew her with him to Ernestine's study. Everything was just as it had been left on the day when Ernestine was taken ill,--nothing had been touched here. The ashes of the burnt fairy-book were still lying on the hearth, the aeolian harp breathed forth sad melody to the rude autumn wind, the roses were fled, and only the thorn-covered bushes remained. The chests were still standing about, all packed for the voyage,--speaking plainly of what had been the plans of the proud spirit now so prostrated by disease. A forgotten pen lay upon the desk, and dust was everywhere. No one had thought of arranging this room,--care for Ernestine had given abundant occupation to the entire household. The pause in the life of the invalid was mirrored in this apartment, where everything seemed awaiting the moment when a busy hand should sweep, dust, and put all in order, and the glad news be heard--"Ernestine is better!" But this moment was still in the dim future. Hither the young couple came, ignorant of the struggles these walls had witnessed, the pain and anguish that had been suffered here.

"Our life lasts seventy--perhaps eighty--years, and the delight of it is labour and trouble." These words, carved on the table, were the first visible sign to these youthful hearts of the struggles, sufferings, and sacrifices of the woman by whose feverish bed they had truly found each other. And Gretchen stayed her steps by the table, and read the words thoughtfully. "She is right," she said to herself. "And if she chose to impose upon herself this severe law, can I choose any other motto--I? What right have I to desire any other delight in life but labour and trouble and penance? Ah, Ernestine, now first I see how n.o.ble you are, and what wrong my father did you."

"Gretchen," asked Hilsborn, "what are you thinking?"

"It seems to me as if an invisible hand here inscribed, 'Hold!' for my eyes alone. How could I for one moment resign myself to the thought of a happiness that could turn me aside from my first and most sacred duty?"

"Gretchen, how am I to understand you?"

She clasped her hands, and, with eyes fixed reverentially upon the carved motto, said, "All my hopes and dreams must be sacrificed for her whose motto this is. Until she is happy, how can I wish to be so?"

"I see what you have resolved, my dearest. You intend to obtain forgiveness for your father, to blot out his sin by your devotion. But you think only of her against whom your father sinned most heavily?

There is another to whom you owe some reparation on his account, and that is myself!"

"What?"

He drew her towards him, and went on with all a lover's sophistry.

"Yes, dearest, your father wronged mine. He robbed him of a valuable scientific discovery."

"Heaven help me! is this so?" cried the girl, greatly distressed.

"And do you not see that it will be no infringement of the duty that you impose upon yourself, if you grant me the reparation that I ask of you, even although I should ask for nothing less than yourself,--your entire life, Gretchen,--would you think me too bold? would you think the compensation for what your father deprived me of too great?"

"No, oh, no! much too small," whispered Gretchen, with glistening eyes.

"Not too small. I know it is too great. But love, Gretchen, will not weigh deserts. Everything is in your hands, dearest. Your father injured my father, but he gives me his child."

The girl put her hands to her throbbing brow. "Can this be so?--can so great a blessing spring from a curse? I do not deserve such joy. Can it be no wrong, but a duty, to love you, whom I would have renounced for duty's sake? I longed to labour and suffer for my father's crime, and is this my penance--to give myself to him whom I love? It is too much,--I cannot believe it. But what shall I do? How shall I reconcile my duty to Ernestine and to you? Help me, advise me, that I may not neglect one duty for the sake of the other,--there can be no true happiness without a clear conscience. Help me, then, to be really happy."

"My darling," said Hilsborn, "I understand you now, just as I have always understood you, and I will help you to satisfy your conscience.

If I could, I would shower every precious gift upon you,--how then could I deprive you of that priceless possession--peace of mind? True love brings true peace in its train, and this peace shall be yours.

Therefore do for Ernestine all that your heart dictates, as long as you can be of service to her. I shall be near you, and we can at least exchange a word now and then. True love is easily content, it prizes even the smallest token. I will not claim one moment that you think belongs to Ernestine,--that would trouble you. We will tell no one as yet of our betrothal but my faithful foster-father Heim, without whose blessing I can take no step in life. The knowledge of our happiness might grate upon poor Mollner, who has so much to endure. But when, Gretchen, Ernestine has entirely recovered, it will be ours to enjoy our bliss without a pang. And if,--which I can scarcely believe,--she should still refuse to share Mollner's lot, then, I swear to you, I will aid you truly in all that you do for her. She shall live with us and be to me as a sister. Is not this all that you desire, my dearest one?"

"Yes, yes, you read my very soul, for I could never consent to be your--wife, until I knew that Ernestine was well and content. And I have hardly thought myself grown up--I am hardly fit to be a wife. How can I accustom myself to the thought?"

"I will do all I can to teach you, dear little wife,--the lesson will not, I hope, be hard to learn," said Hilsborn gaily.

"Perhaps not," Gretchen replied, and for the first time there was an arch sparkle in the melancholy brown eyes.

Thus these two hearts were united, speedily, in childlike faith, after the manner of youth, and without a struggle. But above in the sick-room two hearts were wrestling in mortal pain. Love, for poor Ernestine, must attain the light only through the dark night of error and illusion that was around her,--that light in which Gretchen and Hilsborn innocently basked, driven from their Eden by no angel with the flaming sword. Such strong natures as Mollner's and Ernestine's could not unite without a struggle. Each had framed a world for itself, and one of these worlds must be shattered before they could become one world. The farther apart they were, the more powerful the attraction between them, the more certainly would the weaker crumble to pieces in contact with the stronger. It is the mysterious condition under which gifted natures receive their talents from G.o.d, that they must strive and labour for a happiness that often falls unsought into the lap of weaker natures.

Thus Eternal Wisdom maintains the balance of its gifts,--the weak and the simple receive without asking what the strong must earn. And these two gifted creatures were earning hardly their portion of life's joy, that they might fulfil the law prescribed by G.o.d for creatures so const.i.tuted. His laws are inscribed not upon the heavens, but in the human heart, and all our striving for perfection is, in fact, only an endeavour to read these laws correctly. And how often do we read them falsely, in spite of all our honest pains!

How much more was this the case with one like Ernestine, who had never been taught to heed the still small voice in her heart as the voice of G.o.d! All her errors and sufferings were the result, as are those of most men, of a misconception of the Divine will. If she had known that she was destined to purchase happiness by self-sacrifice, she would have paid for it voluntarily, and would not have wrestled with her destiny to the last, until she almost succ.u.mbed in the conflict. Her life had well-nigh been ruined by the want of true Christian culture; she was ready to make every sacrifice, except that which is alone well pleasing in G.o.d's sight--the sacrifice of self.

And Johannes, true and without guile as he was, endured a terrible trial in Ernestine's sufferings. From hour to hour he became more thoroughly convinced that he had been the means of prostrating Ernestine upon a sick-bed,--that he had burdened her beyond her strength by his reckless description of the danger that threatened her,--and he was a prey to remorse. He reproached himself bitterly, and tormented himself with devising a thousand ways in which he could have managed matters more wisely. "It is presumptuous to attempt to play the part of Providence to another, for the best intentions are no warrant for the consequences," he said to his mother, just when Gretchen and Hilsborn were weaving their rosy future.