Johanna a.s.sented.

"They are trying to burn that bridge behind you," Dr. Wolf continued.

"Without mentioning names, but with an exact description of places and persons that makes any such mention unnecessary, the notice goes on to say that an enthusiasm for art, and yet more a preference for the unrestricted freedom of an artistic career, have led you to break off your betrothal and forsake your relatives,--'the same n.o.ble family,' the article concludes, 'from which, years ago, the daughter eloped with the famous actor, the father of our _debutante_.'"

While he was speaking Johanna grew pale and red by turns. "You are right; this is infamous!" she said, when Dr. Wolf had finished. "I cannot understand----"

"What they have in view?" he completed her sentence when she paused. "I suspect that they intend by this notice to make the breach between you and your relatives final, and to force you to comply with Batti's schemes. No further consideration for your relatives is possible after this has been printed."

"Infamous!" Johanna repeated, and her eyes flashed. "What shall I do to counteract their plan? Advise me."

"Put your name to your novel," he replied. "You will thus prove that you have chosen another career----"

"Upon which, however, the same construction might be placed," she said, thoughtfully. "No, nothing would be gained by it. What will wound my grandfather most deeply is the a.s.sertion that I have left him from a desire for a life of unrestricted freedom. I might be supposed, also, to desire this as an auth.o.r.ess. You must give me some other counsel. Ah, try to help me!"

She clasped her hands and looked up at him with entreating eyes filled with tears. He had never seen her so distressed.

"Be calm!" he said. "'It is ill stirring a muddy pool.' If you say so, I will have a contradiction published in all the princ.i.p.al papers. But would this really do any good? The contradiction would give circulation to the falsehood, which, perhaps, in Stein's obscure paper, may escape the notice of your kindred."

Johanna sighed. "Possibly you are right," she rejoined; "but it is hard to sit still and do nothing."

"You are not required to 'do nothing.' On the contrary, it behooves you to work steadily and continually if you would maintain your place in the 'struggle for existence,' of which we hear so much nowadays. An author's mortal career, unless he be a special favourite of fortune, is hard; doubly so if, as in your case, he rejects the advantages at his command. Pursue a literary calling as your father's daughter, and you will find your path a very different one from that which you must tread anonymously or under a _nom de plume_. Consider whether in your regard for the prejudices of your kindred you do not wrong yourself."

Johanna seemed not to hear him. Leaning against the window-seat, with her head resting on her hand, she was gazing into s.p.a.ce, and by the light of the gas-lamps just lit in the street below, she looked so pale and weary that he feared his presence fatigued her. He rose cautiously, and laid the sleeping child upon the sofa, then took his hat and was about to withdraw. But Johanna roused herself from her abstraction, and held out her hand to him. "Are you going?" she said. "Thank you for both your pleasant and your unpleasant tidings, and answer me one more question: Was that notice inserted at Batti's instigation?"

"In a certain sense, yes," the young man replied. "I hear it is the result of a wager between Batti and Stein. The latter declared that he could conquer your aversion to the circus----"

"And I thought Batti a good man,--supposed him to be my friend!" cried Johanna.

"He probably considers himself such," rejoined Wolf. "He only wishes to force you to what he regards as your good; and if he has an eye at the same time to his own interest, why, we are all like him there."

"You have no right to say that; you are not so!" said Johanna. "What interest of yours has been served by the countless kindnesses you have shown me since we first knew each other?"

"My dear Fraulein, can we flatter our subtle selfishness more delightfully than by rendering the services of friendship?" asked the young man. "But this has not been the question between you and me. All that I have apparently done for you was in truth contrived in opposition to another; whether from hatred, from revenge, or from a desire to shield goodness and purity, I do not know."

It had grown so dark that Johanna, although she was seated opposite to him, could not distinguish the expression of his face; but a slight tremor in his voice betrayed his emotion.

"You do not understand me," he went on, after a pause. "Let me tell you a short story. A few years ago my father adopted a poor orphan, a girl sixteen years old, the daughter of a distant relative. Sara was beautiful and good. She soon occupied my heart and thoughts. I was, however, not free. We Jews, like the children of princes and of peasants, are betrothed by the mutual agreement of heads of families. My betrothed, who loved another, was bolder than I, and afterward married the man of her choice. But at this time I felt myself fettered by what I might call the bashful sense of filial piety, which causes so many of my race to cleave outwardly to traditions which they have really outlived.

Only a Jew can feel and understand this. I controlled myself with all my force, and I do not think that I ever betrayed myself, that Sara ever suspected how happy and how miserable she made me. She was not only worthy of love, she craved love. One day a dashing young soldier came to visit his family, whose estates were in our neighbourhood. He constantly had money-transactions with my father. Chance brought him into contact with Sara. How shall I tell the rest? She found favour in his eyes. And why not? She was a poor Jewish girl; he might trifle with her as he chose; it involved no responsibility for him. The next time I paid a visit at my home I soon saw how matters stood. I saw that my poor Sara was lost. But I struggled against this conviction; at least I would make an attempt to rescue one so dear to me. I thrust myself into her confidence with fire and sword. I left her no illusions with regard to the man to whom she was ready to sacrifice all, perhaps had already sacrificed all. I had controlled my love; I gave my jealousy free play.

Sara's despair wrung my heart, but I thought I was doing right. Then, with my consent, she had an interview with the scoundrel. On the evening of the same day she was taken drowned from the ca.n.a.l which runs at the foot of my father's garden. The neighbours said she must have fallen in while getting water, which she always did herself when she was watering her flowers; my father believed this, and I would gladly have believed it. But upon my writing-table I found a slip of paper, upon which she had written in scarcely-legible characters, 'You are right.' I need not tell you the man's name to explain my interest in you. And now, if you please, we will never speak of this again."

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE FREIHERR'S WEAKNESS IS PAST.

Not until Johanna was once more alone did she appreciate the extent of the mischief wrought by Batti. If he were capable of such conduct after offering her shelter and protection, she could trust him no longer, could accept no further kindness from him. She must sever the only family tie she now possessed.

The longer she pondered thus, the heavier grew her heart. She dreaded solitude, her own inexperience, and the curiosity and impertinence of others. But most of all she dreaded separation from Lisbeth; and, moreover, she asked herself how she could leave the child amid surroundings that imperilled both her spiritual and her material welfare. After some reflection, however, she convinced herself that she never could shield the child by her influence alone, and the next morning when she awoke from a short but refreshing sleep, she made up her mind to do quickly what must be done.

Helena was sitting alone, in an evident ill humour, at the breakfast-table, when Johanna and Lisbeth made their appearance; and when the child, after embracing her mother, asked after Uncle Carlo, she was crossly told to be quiet, that he had gone to the circus. Turning to Johanna, Helena added, "He cannot ride out with you to-day; he has too much to do."

"Let us call things by their right names," Johanna rejoined. "It is disagreeable to him to meet me since by his permission an article concerning me has appeared in the papers."

"You are mistaken! It was not Carlo's fault!" exclaimed Helena. "On the contrary, Stein and he have had a quarrel about it----"

"My dear Helena," Johanna interrupted her, "the newspaper article was written in consequence of a wager between Batti and Dr. Stein, and who, if not Batti, could have informed the writer of the circ.u.mstances of my mother's marriage, of my betrothal, of my estrangement from my grandfather, and of my unlucky gift of horsemanship?"

"How can I help it?" Helena rejoined, in an irritated tone. "It really is more than I can bear! Carlo is rushing about like a roaring lion.

Stein, who was so entertaining, will never come any more to see us, and you take me to account for things with which I have nothing to do, and of which I am as innocent as an unborn babe!" And, bursting into tears, she added, "And everything was so delightful before you came. Carlo and I were as one heart and soul."

"If I interfere with your relations to each other," Johanna replied, "you will consent, I am sure, to my leaving you as soon as possible."

Lisbeth, who had been turning from her sister to her mother, her eyes wide with anxiety, sprang up. "No, no! you must not go away!" she said, throwing her arms about her sister.

Helena wiped her eyes. "As if you would be allowed to go!" she said, crossly. "You know very well that Carlo and Lisbeth cannot live without you!"

"Not another word, Helena!" Johanna hastily interrupted her. "I must prove to you this very day that I am in earnest about leaving you. After what you have said, I should not stay, even had there been no newspaper article." With these words, she gently put Lisbeth from her and arose.

Helena detained her. "How hasty you are!" she complained. "Every one rages at me, but I must weigh every word I utter. Batti, who was going to stay here until autumn, has suddenly--of course because of this Stein affair--made up his mind to travel. He is going in two weeks to Holland, to Belgium, and heaven knows where else! In the autumn we are to go to St. Petersburg. But Lisbeth cannot travel. The doctor says she cannot possibly pa.s.s a winter in Russia. I am at my wits' end. It would kill me to let Batti go without me."

Again she burst into tears. Johanna had much ado to suppress the expression of her joy. "Be composed," she said. "I will take charge of Lisbeth."

"How can you do that if you leave us?" Helena sobbed. And, seizing Johanna's hand, she entreated, "Be kind; make it up with Batti, and stay with us----"

But to stay after all that had been said and done was simply impossible.

Every kindness shown Johanna by Batti would furnish Helena with cause for jealousy. After reflecting for a few moments, Johanna replied, "I must go; indeed, it is the right thing to do. But we need not part in anger. We will tell Batti that this hotel is too noisy for me; that I need fresh air. I will find a quiet lodging at a reasonable rate in the suburbs. Whenever you drive out you can bring Lisbeth to me, and when you go away you can leave her with me altogether."

"But what will you live on?" Helena asked. "I would gladly help you, but I never have anything; my dress costs so much!"

"Don't let that trouble you," said Johanna. "I have a couple of hundred thalers." She had saved this from her pocket-money that she might have the wherewithal to bestow upon the poor of Donninghausen and Tannhagen.

"Moreover, Dr. Wolf has enabled me to dispose of a novel which I wrote awhile ago, and I shall go on working diligently."

"Wrote?" drawled Helena. "Dear Johanna, have you reflected? No one thinks much of auth.o.r.esses----Blue-stocking! it sounds odious!"

Johanna laughed: "That must be borne. My only choice lay between the circus and the pen----"

"You are right; the pen suits you and your serious style much better!"

Helena exclaimed. "But it is odd to fancy you a blue-stocking. How did you happen to think of it? I wish you had married your cousin. Is not a reconciliation possible?"

Johanna's reply was to take up a newspaper and remark that she would look through the advertis.e.m.e.nts of lodgings; in which occupation she became shortly absorbed, whilst Helena felt offended at her persistent reserve, and looked forward to her departure as a relief.

Johanna started on her tour of discovery, and the mysterious something which we call chance befriended her, leading her, after several fruitless applications, to the family of a teacher, who advertised for a couple of young girls to board. She drove a short distance outside the city, and arrived at an old dark two-storied structure, with small grated windows on the ground-floor. A creaking wooden staircase led up from a dim, damp hall. Johanna's courage fell; but when on the landing she opened a door the bell of which rang clearly as she did so, and which bore the name Rupprecht upon a china plate, she entered another world,--clean, whitewashed walls, clear windows, and an open door opposite which seemed to lead out from the second story into the open air.

She had no time for further observation. At the sound of the bell of the opening door, the doors of the rooms on each side opened. The next moment Johanna was surrounded by three pretty blonde girls and two barking dogs; and as soon as she had, with some difficulty, made known her wishes, she was conducted into the little drawing-room, where an elderly, worn, lady-like woman rose from her seat at the window.