A Noble Name Part 47

The Freiherr turned upon him. "Spare me!" and his eyes flashed. "Has it averted disgrace from us? Have I not still had to lose them both? Can you suppose that such worthlessness could be cast aside and leave no trace? Spare me!" he repeated, controlling himself by an effort. "And to do this you could quietly look on and see me thrust the child Johanna out into the world, after all that she had been made to suffer by one of us! Am I to thank you for this? You, my own flesh and blood! For shame!

You do not belong to me. The doctor is the only one who understands me!"

Aunt Thekla shed tears. Johann Leopold stood with downcast eyes. "It was by Johanna's own desire," he said, after a pause.

"Johanna!" exclaimed the Freiherr, and a gleam as of sunshine irradiated his stern face. "I have no fault to find with her. In her affectionate folly she has undertaken the hardest task herself. She could not feign and lie; she preferred to renounce and to labour. Foolish she has been, and stubborn, but her heart is of gold,--a true, genuine Donninghausen!"

After these words he paced the room to and fro once or twice, and then, pausing before Ludwig, asked, "Doctor, when does your train start for Hanover? I shall go with you, and bring the child home."

Aunt Thekla raised her hand in entreaty: "Dear Johann, travel at this season! You cannot be in earnest!"

And Johann Leopold begged, "Pray let me go, sir!"

But the Freiherr shook his head: "No, my lad! I owe it to her and to myself. We will go together, my dear doctor, and I will bring my brave, stout-hearted child home!"

It was a sunny winter's afternoon; Terrace-Cottage lay buried in dreamy repose; the children were at school, the Schwarzwald clock on the landing ticked monotonously, and the sparrows, searching for their daily crumbs upon the terrace, twittered continuously.

Johanna was sitting at her writing-table. She had at last come home to work, as she called it. Her pen flew over the paper, and when, now and then, she raised her eyes, they sparkled with a happy light.

Suddenly she started. The bell on the landing rang, and manly footsteps advanced across it.

"Ludwig," she thought, rising hastily. But some one else entered! For a moment Johanna stood as if chained to the spot; then the spell was broken. "Grandfather!" she cried, rapturously, and was clasped in his arms.

But the Freiherr could give no time to the display of emotion. "Let me look at you!" he said, holding his grand-daughter at arms'-length and scrutinizing her keenly. "Just the same. What does the doctor mean by going on about weary eyes and pale cheeks? But where has the man hidden himself?"

He strode to the door and looked out. "Where the devil are you, doctor?"

he shouted to Ludwig, who had retired to the gla.s.s door looking out upon the terrace. And when Johanna held out both hands to him as he approached her, the Freiherr added, "You have him to thank, child. It is he who has brought me here, and explained all your folly and the rest of it. Now don't cry. We've had enough of tears and long faces."

"Mine are tears of joy," said Johanna. "But sit down and tell me. It seems like a dream!--you here, grandpapa." And again her eyes filled with tears.

The old Freiherr, too, in spite of himself, was too much moved to speak for a few moments. Whilst Ludwig, with a sensation of bitterness, for which he took himself to task, went to the window and looked out into the gathering darkness, the old Herr placed a chair in the middle of the room, seated himself in it, planted both hands upon his knees, and looked about him. "And this is the little cage where you have been hiding all this time!" he said, at last, and his tone was rather melancholy than bantering. Johanna hastened to change his mood. "Do you not like it, grandpapa?" she asked, smiling. "Look out of the window; that pretty little terrace belongs to it."

The Freiherr shook his head. "It is all too small and confined for you,"

he growled. "Well, it's over now. To-morrow morning early,--I promised Thekla that I would stay here overnight,--but to-morrow morning early we're going back to Donninghausen. One thing I must, however, insist upon: there must never be any more concealments between us. You can and must tell me everything. Promise me this." He held out his hand to Johanna, and his eyes shone as she laid hers in it.

"Yes, grandpapa," she replied. "I will, and I will begin now. To go to Donninghausen is, as you know, the dearest wish of my heart; but I cannot do it unless I may carry back with me two things,--my little sister and my work----"

The Freiherr held his grand-daughter's little, cold, trembling hand in a tight clasp. His eyes gleamed beneath their bushy eyebrows, as though he would read her very soul; but she returned his steadfast gaze, and gradually his look grew gentler.

"Your sister," he began, when suddenly the door was flung open, and Lisbeth rushed in. "Oh, Hanna dear!" she cried. Then, seeing two strangers in the twilight, she stopped short.

"And is this she?" asked the Freiherr. "Come here, little one; give me your hand."

"Come," said Johanna. "This is my dear grandfather of whom I have so often told you."

Lisbeth obeyed. Her fair curls had escaped from beneath her felt hat, and were hanging about her happy, rosy face, whence large, dark, serious eyes gazed steadily at the Freiherr.

One look sufficed. The beautiful child took the old man's heart by storm. Beauty had always been an inheritance of his race.

"Well, you fine little specimen," he cried, drawing her towards him, "will you come with your sister and live with me? You must be a good girl and learn to love me and call me grandfather, as she does?"

Johanna, kneeling at his feet, covered the dear withered hand with tears and kisses.

"Child, child, are you mad! Get up, get up!" cried the Freiherr. And, as he raised her, Ludwig approached.

"Now everything is so happily arranged," he said, with hardly-won composure, "that I can leave you without anxiety. Good-by!"

"What do you mean?" asked Johanna, more struck by his voice and manner than by his words. "Where are you going in such a hurry?"

"To London for the present," he replied, "and then to India again----"

"No!" Johanna interrupted him; and her look was like sunshine in his soul. "You will stay with us; I cannot spare you."

She had taken his hand. He drew her towards him. "Johanna," he whispered, "if I stay I must hope!"

"We will both do that," she answered, with a beaming smile; and, turning to the Freiherr, she added, "Grandpapa, Ludwig is going to Donninghausen with us."

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

TWO YEARS AFTERWARD.

Nearly two years had pa.s.sed; it was the 2d of November, and all Donninghausen was astir. The Freiherr's eightieth birthday was to be celebrated, and as the sun shone bright and warm in cloudless skies, it seemed as if mountain and valley, the sparkling brook, and the forest in its autumnal splendour, were taking part in the family festival. Even the old castle itself was in a gala dress; the coat of arms over the entrance was wreathed with evergreens, as was the marble bal.u.s.trade of the terrace and the arch of the entrance hall, while from the bell-tower the flag, with its silver tower upon an azure field, fluttered in the morning wind.

The first festivities were over. In the early morning the school-children had sung a hymn upon the terrace beneath the Freiherr's windows; then he had received the gifts and congratulations of his family. He had rejoiced in the numerous circle gathered around the breakfast-table, and, above all, in his blooming train of great-grandsons. Waldemar's children had been living at Donninghausen for a year now, and all the little Wildenhayns, with their parents, were present upon this occasion. And after breakfast, in accordance with ancient custom, the inspector, the butler, the men- and maidservants, the shepherd and herdsmen, the woodmen and day-labourers, the bailiff, the miller, the forester, the pastor, and the doctor came to offer their congratulations. Even the inmates of the poor-house came to wish their benefactor a long life.

At last they had all departed, and, somewhat relieved, the Freiherr, accompanied by Leo, betook himself to the drawing-room; but, instead of the family group he had expected to see, he found only his sister, who was confined by gout to her wheeled-chair by the fireplace, in which, in spite of the sunshine, a bright fire was blazing.

"All alone, Thekla?" he asked, glancing with dissatisfaction at the handkerchief with which she had hastily dried her eyes upon his entrance. "Where are all the others?"

"I sent them away. I wanted to be alone," said the old lady. "Dear Johann, you cannot imagine how hard it has been for me to be absent for the first time when your people came with their birthday congratulations." And she burst into tears again.

"Come, come, Thekla! Next year, G.o.d willing, you will be present," her brother said, taking a seat beside her.

"Next year!" she repeated, with a melancholy smile. Then changing the subject, she added, "I had the post-bag brought to me. All those are for you."

The Freiherr hastily looked over the addresses of the letters which she handed to him. "Johanna addressed her letter to you, then, eh?" he asked, laying them aside.

"No, nothing came from her," Thekla replied. "But don't be afraid; her letter is probably delayed. Young people upon their wedding-tour----"

"Nonsense!" interposed the Freiherr. "When the wedding-tour has lasted longer than three months the bliss is a little frayed; and if not, Johanna is not one to neglect the old for the new. No, no; something is the matter. The child is ill."

"Dear Johann," Thekla began. But her brother did not allow her to proceed.

"I knew it would be so," he went on, "and I told the doctor so when he devised his confounded plan of travel. A woman belongs at home. She is a superfluity in railways and hotels, and she feels uncomfortable----"