The old lady listened with the most painful and contradictory sensations. Her integrity, her sense of honour, were outraged by the treachery of Otto's and Magelone's conduct towards Johanna, and yet her warm, kindly heart could not forbear pitying Otto in the midst of his complaints and self-reproaches, and her stern loyalty to the Donninghausens impressed upon her the conviction that now, as at all other times, the first consideration was the preservation of the honour of the name. She was quite ready, at Otto's request, to undertake the task of reconciliation, and went up to see Johanna.

The curtains were still closed, but Johanna was no longer lying down.

With hands clasped in front of her, she was restlessly walking to and fro. When the door opened, she turned and came towards it.

"My poor, dear child," Aunt Thekla began, but paused in dismay, as, even in the dim light, she distinguished the expression of Johanna's countenance. Not a trace was to be seen of weakness or of need of sympathy: the pale face was as if carved in marble. Nothing that the old lady had prepared to say would fit this occasion.

"Are you better?" she asked at last, to put an end to the distressing silence.

"Yes, dear aunt; do not trouble yourself about me," Johanna replied, with forced composure.

Aunt Thekla sighed. It grieved her that the young girl had so little confidence in her, but it should not deter her. "Come, sit down by me; I want to talk with you," she said, taking her seat on the lounge. And when Johanna mechanically obeyed, she added, "You need put no force upon yourself; Otto has made a frank confession to me."

"Scarcely frank!" Johanna said, contemptuously.

"You do him injustice!" Aunt Thekla cried. "He said not one word to excuse himself; on the contrary, he accused himself bitterly. If you could have heard how he repents and longs for your forgiveness, you would grant it him with all your heart."

"I cannot," Johanna said, without looking up.

"Oh, do not say that! You not only can, but you must forgive. Do we not pray every day, 'Forgive us our trespa.s.ses as we forgive them that trespa.s.s against us'?"

"I cannot," Johanna repeated.

For a while both were silent; then Aunt Thekla looked up timidly at her niece and said, "Do not misunderstand me if I continue to plead for Otto. I sympathize with you; I can understand how his folly has offended you."

"Offended, do you call it?" Johanna interrupted her. "He has insulted me, and poisoned my life and my soul!"

"So it seems to you now," said her aunt. "But you will learn to regard it differently; you will feel otherwise and judge otherwise. Believe me, my child, Otto is worthy of your forgiveness, and he loves you so----"

Johanna sprang to her feet. "Aunt, I cannot listen to you!" she cried, pressing her hands to her throbbing temples. "You forget that a few hours ago I saw with my own eyes that Otto--that Magelone----And you talk of forgiveness, of love! Oh, everything is hateful in my sight!--life--myself----"

She sank into a chair, and, with a groan, covered her eyes with her hand.

Aunt Thekla shed tears, and, after a long pause, went on: "If you would let me talk to you, I know I could do you good. I do not want to torment you; I only want to repeat Otto's message to you. 'Tell Johanna'--these are his very words; but to appreciate them you should have seen the entreaty in his eyes and heard the tone of his voice--'tell Johanna that I love her more than ever; that I have loved her from the moment when I first knew her----'"

"Oh, aunt!" Johanna broke in upon her words, "can you tell me that? Can you suppose that can console me? If he had told me that Magelone's charms were irresistible for him, and had extinguished his love for me, I could have understood him, and without reproaching him I should have submitted as to the inevitable. But since he has deceived Magelone and lied to her as he has to me, where shall I look for truth? What can I believe? Where find a stay?"

The old lady had no fitting reply to this. "I wish you could see matters in another light," she said, after a long pause for reflection; "and I hope you will do so in time. But now what is to be done if you refuse Otto's entreaty for forgiveness? Of course my brother must learn nothing of this----"

Johanna looked at her in amazement. "Learn nothing?" she repeated. "You do not suppose that I can marry Otto? Magelone has taken my place."

"Child, I told you that Otto does not love Magelone," Aunt Thekla replied. "And she does not love him,--not enough at least to endure for his sake her grandfather's anger." And, clasping Johanna's hands in her own, the old lady added, with tearful, imploring eyes, "Think what you are doing. The happiness or misery of the whole family is in your hands.

If you cannot forgive, Johann Leopold will lose his betrothed, Otto's and Magelone's lives will be ruined, whether they marry or not, and my brother, who has made the happiness and honour of his house his sole care, will see it in his old age brought to disgrace----"

"If I could but spare him!" exclaimed Johanna. Here at last was a word spoken in kindness. Aunt Thekla took courage again. "You can if you choose," she said, and dried her eyes. "Believe me, child, those who forgive are blessed indeed when they can forgive and forget."

"Forgive and forget!" Johanna repeated. "Yes, it would be a blessing; but forgetfulness cannot be forced, and if I could forgive and overcome in myself all bitterness, the old confidence would not return----"

"Only try it!" Aunt Thekla interrupted her. "How many women have forgiven some fickleness or unfaithfulness in their lovers and have been happy wives! Remember, 'Love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.'"

"And 'rejoiceth in the truth,'" Johanna said, her features taking on their former rigidity. "An error might be forgotten, but what separates Otto and myself forever is his falsehood. If you knew how degraded I feel by it; how petty, suspicious, evil-minded it makes me. To shield Magelone and himself from his grandfather's anger he betrothed himself to me; for the same reason he seeks a reconciliation with me now; and perhaps--who knows?--the possession of Tannhagen adds weight to the scale. Tell me yourself, Aunt Thekla, can I regard as my lord and master the man of whom I think thus?"

Johanna arose, went to the window, and drew aside the curtains. There it was again, the pitiless sunshine. It reached her very heart through her eyes, and revealed the lovely and yet terrible picture of the pair beneath the forest shades. If she could but be spared that sight! She would rather see nothing, nothing.

A light touch roused her. Aunt Thekla had followed her, and now laid her hand upon her arm. "What answer shall I take to Otto?" she asked. "Be kind, be sensible. Reflect; the banns are to be published for the first time the day after to-morrow----"

"It must not come to that!" Johanna interrupted her. "Tell Otto that I agree to any method by which he, without implicating Magelone or himself, can dissolve our engagement----"

"You are terrible!" cried Aunt Thekla. "Yours is the obstinacy of our race, only turned against the Donninghausens. But this cannot be your final decision. You will be calmer; you will see that you must overcome your pride, your just indignation. Stay in your room; I will tell my brother that you need rest, and you must promise me not to be overhasty.

Pray promise me this."

"Rest a.s.sured I will do nothing that can injure Otto," said Johanna. "As I told you, he himself may arrange everything. I will take the blame of the break upon myself. Now let us say no more about it, dear aunt; I really can no more."

How sad and weary was the face which had been wont to look so fresh and glad! Aunt Thekla's eyes filled with tears. "If I could only do something for you!" she said. "It is dreadful to leave you so alone; but Otto is waiting for an answer----"

"Otto, always Otto!" Johanna thought, bitterly; but the next moment she banished the thought, and replied in a gentler tone than she had used hitherto, "Do not mind me; it is best for me to be alone!"

The old lady still lingered. "I hope you have not misunderstood me. You know I have your happiness at heart."

Johanna fell upon her neck. "You are kind. You will bear with me," she whispered.

Aunt Thekla left her easier in her mind. She would have patience if only the two might be brought together again in the end. And they surely would be if Otto could only plead his own cause. He would do better, perhaps, to-day to leave Johanna to her reflections; to-morrow she would be calmer, more accessible; he could come again then.

But whilst Aunt Thekla was resigning herself to the hope of a reconciliation, and even Otto's doubts were partially overcome, Johanna's condition of mind was the same. She had been thrust forth from her paradise, and even although she should force herself to forgive, it would not affect the dissolution of her engagement.

Yes, all must be changed. To go on in the old way was impossible. What was she to do? Where should she go? To Lindenbad? And it occurred to her that upon her return from her ride a letter from Ludwig had been handed her, or had she dreamed it? No; there it lay upon her writing-table: a thick, soiled envelope, covered with stamps and addresses.

She opened it. It was an old letter,--the one written in answer to the announcement of her betrothal.

Ludwig wrote:

"DEAR JOHANNA,--I know that it is the fashion to reply to the announcement of a betrothal by congratulations, but I should be false to myself and to the love I bear you were I to conceal beneath any set, formal phrases my feelings and opinions upon the present occasion. I trust you have sufficient confidence in me to believe in the honesty of my intentions, even although you differ from me in sentiment.

"Then let these lines warn you, and admonish you to ask yourself more seriously than you have done hitherto whether it is really possible for this man to satisfy your demands upon life, to fill your heart, to understand and keep pace with you?

I, who know you better than any one else knows you, I declare that this is not possible, and I pray you to open your eyes before you are irrevocably bound. By marriage with this man you condemn yourself to a life of loneliness and renunciation.

"You know this yourself. Does not your letter, written in the first joy of your betrothal, speak of a 'want' in your happiness? Your recalling of this word afterwards cannot weaken its significance. In your inmost soul you feel that you are about to take a wrong step, and the instinct of your heart, which is 'beyond all reason,' warns you to pause.

"I shall never forgive myself for not being beside you to aid this instinct. I could not but foresee what has happened. I knew how it would be, and I left you in anger, with my self-love grievously wounded, while it was my duty, as well as my right, to say to you, 'You belong to me, and I will not leave you.'

"I say this now, and my life will prove to you how seriously I say it. If you persist in the wretched course which threatens to separate us utterly, I vow solemnly to you, and to myself, that you never again shall hear these words from me, but you will find me whenever and however you may need me.

"It is my own fault that I have lost you. When I went to you at your father's, and found that you had outgrown the atmosphere of my father's house, I thrust you from me in wayward, boyish folly, when I ought to have taken you in my arms and sought to win you from all that estranged you from me.

"Why do I say this to you now? Because I would have you know me thoroughly, and would set you an example of absolute confidence. We human beings should lighten our trials greatly if we shrank less from confessing to ourselves and to others our errors, our defeats, our miscalculations. Let me hope that you are free from the vanity and cowardice that would lead you so to shrink. Do not close your eyes; and if you see that you have been overhasty, redeem the error before it be too late.

Above all, do not fancy that you must hold to your plighted troth for your betrothed's sake. As I know him, not all your love can make him happy.

"Will you accuse me of harshness in saying this? Be it so. I cannot look on with a feigned smile, or even in silence, when I see you going to your destruction.

"But can I be mistaken? The fact that this man, amid the puppets by which he has been surrounded, has known how to find the way to you, makes me waver in my estimate of him. Certainly I will not close my mind to a better opinion of him; and should you continue to find him worthy of your love, and should he prove himself capable of appreciating you and of making you happy, I will acknowledge his right to possess you as unhesitatingly as I now challenge it.