A Noble Name Part 29

Otto had been shaking at the old latch for a while. The door now sprang open. A blast of wind drove it back against the wall with a crash. It was answered by another crash, probably produced by the blowing to of some window. There was a rustling in the air, and a dark something fell from above and lay between Aunt Thekla and Johanna, who recoiled with a slight scream.

Otto sprang to pick it up. "It is the homage paid by the old barracks to its future mistress," he said, laughing, holding out to Johanna one of the withered harvest-wreaths.

"Or an evil omen," Aunt Thekla whispered, and then hoped that no one had heard her. The lovers looked laughing into each other's eyes, and the Freiherr, standing at the carriage-door, bade them make haste and get in.

Johanna fortunately attached no importance to the trifle. The Freiherr was so interested in the prospect of founding a new nest of Donninghausens in the neighbourhood of the cradle of the race that all through the homeward drive he discussed the pros and cons of the purchase, and the pros came to be more and more in the ascendant. At Donninghausen he laid before the lovers all the doc.u.ments that he had been able to procure with regard to the estate, and met with an unqualified a.s.sent to his plans and wishes. Otto was even more zealous than the Freiherr; the fourteen days for consideration which his grandfather proposed seemed to him too long, and as he left he whispered to Johanna, "Darling, do what you can to have us established _soon_ at Tannhagen."

It was late, and the Freiherr was about to retire. When Johanna bade him 'good-night,' he took both her hands in his. "My child," he said, drawing her towards him, "you must reflect seriously upon the purchase of Tannhagen. Do not forget that the comfort of your future life is at stake, and leave out of the question my wishes and Otto's impatience.

Will you do this, and tell me frankly the conclusion at which you arrive? We might look farther and find something better."

"Not for me, dear grandpapa. I have fallen in love with the old house,"

she said. And, kissing his hand, she added, "If I could only tell you how your kindness touches me!"

As she spoke, there was something in the sound of her voice that reminded the old man more than ever of her mother. To ward off his own emotion, he exclaimed, "Kindness, dear child! It is obstinacy. I can hardly wait to have you bear the name of Donninghausen." And, as if to himself, he added, "Donninghausen-Tannhagen. G.o.d grant that name a fair fame!"

"Donninghausen-Tannhagen!" Johanna, too, whispered to herself soon afterwards, as in her own room she stood at the window and looked out into the dark rainy night. Donninghausen-Tannhagen! What was there in the name to move her so strangely? Was it the thought of the old house that was to be the home of her young happiness? She saw it distinctly in imagination, not only as it was, but as it should be, and as it surely one day would be. And not only the rooms did she see, but the stir of human life within them. Forms came and went, grouped themselves, vanished, and were replaced by others. They spoke, and Johanna understood them without actually hearing their words. It was all dream-like, shadowy, and Johanna felt it to be so.

"I must be dreaming already; the day has over-fatigued me," she said to herself. But, whereas she usually fell asleep with her mind dwelling upon Otto, to-night, when she extinguished her candle, she was surrounded anew by these images from Tannhagen. From room to room, up and down the stairs, through court-yard and garden, she pa.s.sed, always surrounded by changing forms and faces, among them was the angry old woman upon her crutch. She was transformed, she looked young, gay, and happy, and Johanna knew that she had secretly stolen forth from her father's mill among the alders to spend a few minutes with the handsome son of the Tannhagen farmer, whom she loved and could not yet marry.

Suddenly she was old again, and, striking her crutch on the floor, repeated that no one who bought Tannhagen should have any joy of it, and the faded harvest-wreaths beneath the ceiling rustled and whispered, as if to say, 'Ah, we have seen much, and could tell much!'

This swarm of creatures of her fancy was not new to Johanna, only she had grown unaccustomed to them. As a child, and even as a young girl at Lindenbad, they had continually crowded about her; but then they came in the day-time, often in the midst of tedious lessons and tasks. Sometimes they were mere fleeting, misty phantoms; sometimes they were distinct, brightly-colored figures, playing their parts in the wildest dramas, which the girl would go on weaving for days and weeks. Not until she took occasion to tell these tales did they leave her,--sometimes before she wished them to do so. Then the fantastic swarm would vanish as at the word of a magician. Therefore she could not be depended upon by an audience. Only among the small children at her _pension_ she now and then found a story-loving creature who would listen eagerly to her fragments. The 'big girls' ridiculed her, and Johanna, ashamed, put a check upon her fancy, till at last the 'stupid images' troubled her no more. Why should they now suddenly appear again? Was it to lure her to Tannhagen, or to scare her from it?

For a while Johanna let them come and go, then she tried to rid herself of them, but she could not. At last she arose, lit a candle, wrapped herself in a dressing-gown, and sat down at her writing-table. Perhaps writing would be as effective as narrating by word of mouth.

"Dear Otto," she began, and then pa.s.sed her pen through the words. He would not understand her; he would laugh at her as the 'big girls' had done at the _pension_. Moreover, he did not want letters from her, and did not like to have her tire her eyes and s.n.a.t.c.h any time from her night's rest. Formerly she had gone to Ludwig with her narratives; but to tell him what she withheld from Otto would be simply impossible.

For a while she sat undecided, then she dipped her pen in the ink again.

"I will try it," she whispered to herself, and began to write. To whom?

Out into s.p.a.ce. And what? She herself did not know.

CHAPTER XIX.

PROFESSIONAL ENTHUSIASM.

The Freiherr had bought Tannhagen, and had acceded to Otto's entreaty that the marriage might take place at the end of May. There was much to do before then to make the 'old barracks,' as the Freiherr called the farm-house, habitable. There was no end of consultations with builders and workmen. Hangings and carpets were ordered. Lobel Wolf, who had been taken into favour again, ransacked the country round for old furniture to suit Johanna's taste; Aunt Thekla contributed chests full of linen, and Otto was perpetually going to and fro urging the workmen at Tannhagen to greater speed and keeping his grandfather informed of all that was doing.

The Freiherr seemed to grow younger and more cheerful every day amid these constant calls upon his interest. They helped him to forego the usual Christmas gathering this year, and to bear the absence of Johann Leopold. Hedwig could not, of course, travel with her new-born baby, and Hildegard's children had the measles,--very fortunately for their mother, who was reluctant to witness the happiness of the betrothed pair. Magelone also was away. She had developed a tender affection for Hedwig's boys, and begged her grandfather to allow her to spend her Christmas with them.

It was a great pleasure, shortly before Christmas-day, to receive a letter from Johann Leopold. It was plain, however, from its contents that a previous packet, containing a letter from Ludwig Werner in answer to the announcement of Johanna's betrothal, had been lost. This time only Johann Leopold wrote. Ludwig had been absent from him for a while upon an expedition to the interior, which the writer did not feel strong enough to join. He said nothing special about his health, but from several of his expressions it seemed plain that the hopes he had entertained as to the effect of his travels had not been confirmed, and, in spite of the pleasure and interest they had afforded him, there might be read between the lines of his letter a certain desire for home, the longing of an invalid to be once more living quiet days amid familiar scenes. Still, he did not seem inclined to hasten his return. He wrote that the work of the expedition to which Ludwig Werner belonged would hardly be finished before the end of the summer, so that he could not expect to see Donninghausen again before the autumn. He was, of course, all the more anxious for a detailed account of all that pa.s.sed there, and asked particularly concerning the plans of the betrothed pair, whom he cordially begged to rely upon his brotherly aid whenever they might require it. Sympathy with their happiness, he added, should cheer his own life of renunciation.

"Poor Magelone!" thought Otto, when he heard this portion of the letter.

"How can she depend for future happiness upon such a shadow of a man?"

But the old Freiherr declared that it was all hypochondriacal nonsense, and that when the bustle of the outfit and the wedding were over at Tannhagen, the same thing should be begun at Donninghausen.

"You will see, Thekla," he said to his sister, "when it comes to seriously building his nest, Johann Leopold will be just as sensible as Otto has become. I never should have believed that the lad could be so practical and industrious. It gives me the greatest pleasure to see it."

Even Johanna was surprised at Otto's unwearied zeal, but she could not help thinking that in his care for outward circ.u.mstances, the frame of life, he was overlooking the life itself, and his ardent tenderness could not indemnify her for the want of that congeniality of mind and thought which she had hoped for from her lover, and for which she longed daily. Otto declared that there would be time enough for philosophizing when they were settled in their Tannhagen solitude; at present it seemed to him best to discuss the alterations in the house, the laying out of the garden, the carpets, and the furniture. And since Johanna's taste differed widely from his own, which was all for the modern, the elegant, and the graceful, while she would have had her furniture in artistic harmony with her house, there was no end to discussions upon household matters, which left Otto no time for what interested Johanna more deeply.

She would not admit to herself that he lacked interest in everything save what was superficial, and after he had left her in the evening she made every effort to banish the feeling of discontent that a.s.sailed her.

She sought refuge more and more continually at her writing-table. The impression produced upon her imagination by Tannhagen at her first visit had not faded. She still in fancy saw the old house peopled with shapes upon whom, involuntarily, she bestowed the very life of her life, whom she caused to ask and answer, to love, to suffer, to hope, and to grieve, according to her own mood. And each of these phantoms had an individual existence, to which she felt forced--she knew not why--to give expression in words. She did it with mingled delight and pain. Form and colour would sometimes elude her, or the shape which she had thought stable would fade and vanish, while at other times, without the slightest effort on her part, her brain would be crowded with clear and lovely images, whose very being she could understand and interpret. What would come of all this she never asked herself. She believed that in writing she was but obeying an impulse to reveal herself absolutely to Otto. She called these outpourings of her very self 'apocryphal love-letters,' and she wrote herself to rest, as some sing themselves to sleep.

Thus the winter pa.s.sed. It was unusually stormy and severe, even for these mountains. All the more welcome to Johanna were the first spring breezes, the coming of the first birds of pa.s.sage, and the bursting of the sheaths of the first blossoms. Her rides and walks with her grandfather were not long enough. Elinor was saddled for her in the early morning, and it was sometimes hard to turn back in time for breakfast.

One morning she had started earlier than usual. The eager March air and the sunshine blended harmoniously. A lark poured his 'full heart' 'from heaven or near it.' With Leo barking about her, she turned her mare into the woodland path leading to the 'Forest Hermitage.'

It was long since she had seen her proteges. The Freiherr had not forbidden her to visit them, but it vexed him to hear them mentioned.

Therefore, when she crossed the forest path upon her road home from Tannhagen with her grandfather, she did not venture to turn into it. She learned from Otto, who now and then brought her a greeting from Christine, that the couple were content and happy, and she should be glad to hear this from Christine herself.

But she found an invalid. An old woman opened the door for her, with a curtsey. The young wife lay on the sofa, propped with pillows, her face pale and wan, her eyes dim, and the hand she held out to Johanna burned with fever.

"Christine, what has been the matter?" Johanna exclaimed, in dismay.

"When Herr Otto saw you a week ago he brought me such good news of you!"

Christine's eyes wore an anxious, terrified expression. "I was taken ill just afterwards," she answered, in a weak voice. "But please, Fraulein, say nothing about it now: I hear Jakob coming; he is too anxious, and I am a great deal better."

Her husband entered. Johanna was startled by his gloomy, haggard looks.

"The gracious Fruleen!" he cried, and tore off his hat.

Johanna thought she detected a shade of reproach in his tone. "I did not know that Christine was ill, or I should have come long ago," she said.

"Why did you not send me word? I should have been so glad to do something for her."

"Thanks, gracious Fruleen," he replied; "she has wanted for nothing. The Klausenburg doctor has been here every day, and she has had plenty of medicine,--there, little one, is a fresh bottleful,--and she shall have whatever she wants to eat and drink, if I have to run miles for it." He laughed, and ran his fingers through his bushy red hair, so that it stood out all over his head.

Christine looked at him beseechingly. "Yes, yes, Fraulein," she said, "he has tended me as if I were a princess. He is on his feet day and night."

"That's the part you tell!" he interrupted her; "but that it is all my fault----"

"Jakob, what did you promise me?" the sick woman implored him, lifting her clasped hands.

"That I would not speak evil of any one," he answered, gloomily, "and I won't. But I may tell of what I have done myself. Yes, gracious Fruleen, it is my fault, the fault of my bad temper, that the poor little thing is lying there, disappointed of her pleasure in soon having a child again. And when I see her, as patient as a lamb----But if she dies----"

He raised his sound arm and shook his clinched fist. "If she dies----G.o.d in heaven!"

With this cry he sank back into a chair, covered his face with his hands, and sobbed aloud.

Christine half arose. "Let me! let me!" she begged, trying to resist Johanna's efforts to detain her.

"See now, I always do her harm," he said, gently putting her back among the pillows. "Be good, child, and reasonable for both of us. I cannot be, for I have nothing but you; and whoever takes you from me, whether it be a man or G.o.d Almighty----"

She pressed her hand upon his lips. "Hush, hush!" she said, "do not blaspheme. I am better. We shall stay with each other for a while yet.

Let us pray for it; try to, for my sake."