The Prince must have forgotten that he had meant to send for Sonnenkamp, who now found himself deprived of all opportunity of expressing his thanks in person to him or to his brother, by their departure, in company with many nobles of the court, and Pranken among them, for a royal hunting-seat where the great Spring hunts were to be held. Pranken had left the capital in great ill-humor at Herr Sonnenkamp's having been guilty of the impropriety of entering into any relations with the editor of a newspaper.
All was quiet in the Hotel Victoria. Eric's mother and aunt had already returned to the green cottage, and Roland begged and entreated every day that the whole family might break up their establishment in the Capital. At last his wish was granted, and Sonnenkamp favored his house, his servants, the park and the hot-houses, with a sight of the glory of his button-hole. This decoration he brought back, and could always preserve as a happy memento of that winter of pleasure and of pain. Roland never grew weary of greeting the familiar objects with fresh delight. A feeling and love of home seemed to be roused in him, for the first time, in its full intensity.
"I see now," he said to Eric, "that this living in hotels and anywhere else than in one's own house is like living on a railway. I can go to sleep, but I hear all the time the rattle of wheels in my dreams. That is the way when we are abroad, but now we are at home again, and I have a grandmother near by to visit, and an aunt, and the Major is a kind of uncle, and Claus is like a faithful old tower. The dogs too are glad to have me at home again. Nora looked at me a little strange at first, but soon recognized me, and her pups are splendid. Now we will be busy and merry again. It would be nice to plant a tree to remember this day by, and have you plant one near it, don't you think so? Don't you feel as I do, that you have just come into the world, and that all that has happened before was only a dream? If I could only erect something that should always be saying to me: Remember how happy you once were, and how happy you are, and let nothing further trouble you in the world. Oh, how beautiful it is here! The Rhine is broader than I remembered it, and the mountains look down so upon me! I think I saw them in my fever, but not so beautiful as they are now. It seems as if I could compel the vineyards to grow green at once."
As he was walking with Eric along the river bank, he suddenly stood still and said,—
"Hark, how the waves plash against the shore! Just so have they rippled and plashed day and night when I was not here. Would it not be beautiful to plunge into the waves and swim? Does not the rippling tempt you too? It seems to me we did it centuries ago."
The boy had awaked to new life, and thoughts and feelings came bubbling ceaselessly from his heart, as from an ever running fountain. He delighted in having the people he met tell him how tall he had grown, and how like a man he was looking.
Eric listened patiently to all his outpourings; the boy was tasting the double pleasure of returning health and the opening spring.
"The hen cackles for herself and the cock," he exclaimed, the first time he heard a hen; "and I am sure it is as beautiful a sound to them, as the song of the nightingale is to us. Don't you think our barnyard hen makes a great deal more noise over the laying of an egg than her wild sisters? No female of all the wild birds of the forest sings; the hen is the only one. Do look at the grass; how beautifully green it is, and the hedgerows there! The green leaves and buds would like to pop out all of a sudden and cry, Here we are!"
So he chattered on, like a grateful child.
Only a little at a time could the studies be resumed. Eric observed a certain depression in his mother, which might be the result of her anxiety for Roland, whose illness naturally recalled to her that of her own son, or of her constant care for the poor in the neighborhood, whose calls for help were increasing as their winter stores were getting exhausted. Roland was desirous of sharing these cares with her, and of being allowed to take some of the gifts himself; but the mother would not permit it. He was not ready for that yet, she said; he must first come to be a strong man himself, able to carry out his own great lifework.
Roland complained that he did not see the need of so many having to suffer want, when there was enough in the world to satisfy everybody. Eric and his mother had to reason with him, or he would have cursed wealth as a misfortune and an injustice. But the elasticity of youth came to their aid, and the boy soon forgot how much misery there was in the world, and contented himself with the objects immediately about him.
Sonnenkamp was very happy, too, for Eric and Roland took an active interest in the cultivation of the trees, and he could be their teacher.
"You will experience, as I have," he often said, "that the greatest pleasure in the world, is to watch the growth of a tree of your own planting."
The buds were swelling in the garden, while across the river, and over the fields, floated an aromatic breath of spring, a fragrance as if the air had blown over vast, invisible beds of violets. Within the house was a cheerfulness that had never been known there before. Even Frau Ceres could not escape its influence, for Roland shed about him a constant atmosphere of joy, that infected all who came in contact with him. He had, moreover, now, as he confided to the Professorin, a project in his head, of which he would not betray, even to her, the exact nature. On the anniversary of his birthday, which was also that of Eric's arrival, he meant to prepare for everybody such a joyful surprise as they never would guess.
The grass and the blossoms had come forth in the garden, the birds were singing, and the boats sailing merrily up and down the river, when, on the day preceding Roland's birthday, a note was found in his room, saying that the family must not be uneasy about him, for he would return the next day, bringing something most beautiful with him.
Upon inquiry, it appeared that Roland had set off with Lootz for the convent.
Two steamers, one bound for the valley, the other for the mountains, were standing in the stream at a little distance from the island. In the one bound for the valley was Roland. In answer to his impatient question why they did not land, the captain silently pointed to the island, where a procession of priests and nuns were following a bier covered with flowers, and borne by girls dressed in white. The voices of children, as they sang, rose on the clear Spring air. Roland's heart trembled; what if his sister-—-?
"It must be a little child," said an elderly man standing near him; "the bier is so small; those young girls could not carry it otherwise."
Roland breathed more freely; he knew his sister must be among the mourners.
He had landed, and was standing on the bank beside the boatman, who was to row him over to the island. The man shook his head and said softly:—
"Not yet, not yet; but perhaps you are a relation of the child?"
"What child?"
"A little child has died in the convent; oh, such a beautiful child! it made one happy only to look at her. The Lord God will have to make but little change to turn her into an angel."
"How old was she?"
"Seven, or eight at the most. Hark, there they come!"
The bells rang out into the Spring air, the smoke of the incense ascended, as the procession moved along the shore.
The boatman took off his hat, and prayed with folded hands. Roland, too, stood with uncovered head, and with a sudden shock he thought: Thus might I have been borne to the grave. Such a weakness came over him that he was obliged to sit down; he kept his eyes fixed upon the island; the procession went on, then disappeared, and all was still.
Now they were sinking the young body in the ground; the birds sang, no breath of air stirred, a steamboat came towards the mountain; all was like the figures in a dream.
The procession came in sight again, singing, and vanished through the open doors of the convent.
"So," said the boatman, putting on his hat, "now I will row you across."
But Roland, unwilling to surprise his sister before she had had time to rest and compose herself, asked to be allowed to remain a while longer on the shore. It was well he did, for no one in the convent so felt a part of her very self taken from her, as Manna. Dear little Heimchen had held out for a whole year, seeming to grow more cheerful, and making good progress in her studies, but in the Spring she faded, like a tenderly nurtured flower too early exposed to the cold.
Devotedly, day and night. Manna nursed the child, who with her was always happy. A foretaste of heaven seemed granted little Heimchen; she looked forward to it as to a Christmas holiday, and often said to Manna that she should tell God, and all the angels in heaven, about her. The next moment she would beg Manna to tell her about Roland.
"I saw him running with his bow and arrows, and oh, he was so beautiful!"
Then Manna told about Roland, and could always make Heimchen laugh by describing how his little pups tumbled one another over and over. The physician, and the hospital nun, who was almost a doctor herself, urged Manna to take more rest, but she was strong, and never left her post. In Manna's arms the child died, and her last words were:—
"Good-morning, Manna, it is no longer night now."
Manna's experience had been manifold. She had seen a novice assume the dress of the order, and had seen a fellow pupil enter her novitiate; yet was it all only a strong, free, joyful self-sacrifice. Now she had witnessed the death of a child, a little human being, dropping softly and silently from the tree of life, as a blossom falls from the stem.
It was Manna who, at the lower end of the bier, had helped to bear the child to the grave, and thrown three handfuls of earth upon the coffin. She did not shed a tear until the priest described how the child had been called from the earth, as a father might summon his child from a play-ground where it was in danger, and keep it safe in his home; then she wept bitterly.
On leaving the cemetery, she went once more to Heimchen's empty bed, and there prayed God that she might enter into eternity as pure as that little child. Then she grew composed, feeling the time could not be far distant when, after a short return to the excitement of the world, the great Father of all would summon her away from this play-ground into his sheltering mansions. She seemed already to hear voices from the noisy world without, calling her once more to return to it. She must obey them, but made a firm resolve faithfully to return into this, her one, only home.
She descended to the island, and took her seat under the pine-tree where she had so often worked. There was the little bench on which Heimchen had sat close by her side, almost at her feet. Manna sat here long, trying to imagine the distractions which life could bring to her in this one year, but she did not succeed. Her thoughts would return to Heimchen, and she found herself trying to follow the young soul into the eternity of Heaven.
Suddenly she heard steps, and looking up saw before her a youth who was like Roland, only much taller, and more manly. She could not stir from her seat.
"Manna, Manna, come to me!" cried the boy.
She rose, and with a loud cry, brother and sister fell into one another's arms.
"Sit down by me," said Manna at last. They sat together upon the bench beneath the pine-tree, and Manna, pointing to the smaller bench, told of Heimchen, and of her often wanting to hear stories about Roland, and when she came to tell how the child had died of homesickness, she suddenly exclaimed:—
"Our whole life, Roland, is nothing but homesickness for our heavenly home; of that we die, and happy is he who dies of it."
Roland perceived that his sister was in a state of overwrought excitement, amounting almost to ecstasy; and speaking in a tone of quiet and manly decision, he told her that she must first come back to her earthly home. He told her of his having acted in a play, and having been photographed in his page's silk dress; of the order his father had received; and, finally, of a secret his father had confided to him, and which he could not tell.
"Our father told you a secret?" asked Manna, her face growing rigid.
"Yes, and a beautiful, noble one; you will rejoice with me when you hear it."
Manna's features relaxed.
Roland told her how he had fancied himself with her all through his delirium, and that she ought to feel only happy at his being still alive.
"Yes, you are still alive," cried Manna, "you shall live. All is yours."
He reminded her that to-morrow was his birthday, and that his own wish was that she would let him take her to their parents on that day.
"Yes, I will go with you," cried Manna, "and it is better we should go directly."
Hand in hand, the brother and sister went to the convent, where Manna told the Superior of her intention to go home with Roland. In a state of feverish excitement, she then hurried to bid good-bye to all her fellow pupils, and all the nuns, went into the church and prayed, and finally made Roland go with her to Heimchen's grave.
Roland observed a long, straight row of gravestones without inscriptions, and, on asking Manna about them, was told they marked the graves of the nuns.
"That is hard," said Roland, "to have to be nameless after death."
"It is but natural," returned Manna; "whoever takes the veil lays aside her family name and assumes a sacred one, which is hers until her death, and then another bears it."
"I understand." said Roland. "That is giving up a great deal. The name of the nun cannot be written on the gravestone, nor the family name either; yet there must be a great many of noble family buried here."
"Yes, indeed; almost all were noble."
"What should you say if we should be noble too?"
"Roland, what do you mean?" cried Manna, seizing him violently by the arm. "Can you speak of such a thing here and now? Come away; such thoughts are a desecration to the graves."
She led him out of the little burial-place and as far as the gravel path, when, suddenly leaving him, she turned once more to the cemetery and knelt down by the grave; then she rejoined her brother.
Lootz was standing with the luggage ready; Manna stepped into the boat with Roland, and the brother and sister were borne up the stream toward their home. All in the boat gazed with a pleased curiosity at the pair, who, however, sat quietly hand in hand, looking out upon the broad landscape.
"Tell me," urged Roland, "why you said, when you were going to that convent, that you, too, were an Iphigenia?"
"I cannot tell you."
"Oh yes, you can; I know all about her. I have read the Iphigenia of Euripides, and of Goethe, too, by myself and with Eric, and you are like neither of them."
"It was only-—- ah, let us forget all about it."
"Do you know," cried Roland, "that Iphigenia became the wife of the great hero Achilles and lived with him, on the island of Leuce, in eternal blessedness?"
Manna confessed her ignorance, and Roland described the copy of the Pompeian fresco that Eric's mother had showed him, where Calchas, the priest, is holding the knife, Diomedes and Odysseus are bearing Iphigenia to the altar, and, her father, Agamennon, hides his face, while, at the command of Artemis, one of the nymphs leads in the stag that is to be sacrificed in Iphigenia's place.
"How many things you have learned," smiled Manna.
"And Eric told me," continued Roland, "that the sacrifice of Iphigenia was just like that of Isaac, and all the other sacrifices we read about."
Manna's face darkened; that was the foundation of a fatal heresy.
"Stop, now I have it," cried Roland. "Ah, that is good! There are still oracles in the world. Orestes had to fetch his sister from the temple of Tauris, where she was priestess. That is it! You divined it! That will delight Eric; ah! how it will delight him! But stay! When Iphigenia and her brother were on board ship I am sure he must have played off all sorts of silly tricks to amuse her, and I am sure she laughed. Have you quite forgotten how to laugh? You used to laugh so merrily, just like a wood-pigeon. Do laugh just once."
He laughed with his whole heart, but Manna remained unmoved, and, during the way, sat buried in her own thoughts. Only once, when the boat came to a sudden stop in the middle of the stream, she asked:—
"What is that?"
"That is the very question I asked Eric when we were going up the river together, and he showed me up there a heavily-laden freight vessel, which would be overturned and sunk by the commotion of the water, if our steamer did not moderate its speed. Oh, there is nothing he does not know, and then he said: Remember. Roland, that we should do the same thing in life; we must not rush on our own way, but must think of the heavily-laden voyagers on the stream of life with us, and take care that the waves we raise do not overwhelm them."
Manna stared at her brother. She could trace the influence of a man who used the actual as a symbol of the ideal, and she became herself, in a measure, conscious of that power which in every outward aspect of life seeks and finds the underlying thought. She shook her head, and opening her breviary, began diligently to read it.
"See the sunlight on the glass cupola," cried Roland, as it grew late in the afternoon. "That is home. Perhaps they have guessed at home that you are coming back with me."
"Home, home," breathed Manna softly to herself; the word sounded strange to her on her own lips, as it had done from Roland's. She closed her eyes, as if dazzled by the reflection on the glass cupola.
Two carriages were waiting at the landing. Manna received the embraces and kisses of her father without returning them, and watched, in apparent terror, the receding steamer, which, after quickly landing its passengers, went swiftly on its way.
"Your mother is in the carriage," said Sonnenkamp, offering Manna his arm. She laid her hand timidly upon it, allowed herself to be led to the glass carriage, in which sat Frau Ceres and Fräulein Perini, and, taking her seat beside her mother, embraced her passionately.
Sonnenkamp and Roland entered the other carriage, and all drove toward the villa. The father muttered something to himself about not having heard the sound of his daughter's voice.
"Where is Eric?" asked Roland.
"In the green cottage with his mother. It was considerate on the part of a stranger to retire to his own relations at such a time, and leave the family alone."
Roland was struck by the words. Were Eric and his family strangers?
On arriving at the villa, Fräulein Perini also withdrew hastily, and went to the Priest's house, whence a messenger was soon despatched to the telegraph station.
The parents were alone with their children, but there seemed a chill in the room which banished all feeling of quiet and comfort.
Sonnenkamp and Roland took Manna to her room, where she was pleased to find everything in its old place, and, at sight of the open fire-place filled with beautiful growing plants, turned to her father and thanked him, offering him her hand for the first time, and kissing his; but she could not repress a shudder at touching the ring on his thumb.
When Roland was left alone with his sister, he urged her to visit his grandmother and aunt that very day; but Manna reproved him for giving such names to persons not really related to him.
"Ah, but you must love them too," said Roland.
"Must? One can love nobody upon compulsion. Let me tell you, Roland— but no; there is no need."
She yielded at last to his persuasions, and went with him through the new gateway in the garden wall, along the meadows by the shore.
"There goes Eric; I will call him. Eric! Eric!" cried Roland in a loud voice.
The figure did not turn, however, but kept on, and presently disappeared among the shrubbery.
Roland and Manna found the Professorin waiting for them upon the steps, and Manna received a hearty welcome.
"He gave me no peace till I consented to come to you," said Manna.
"So he makes you mind like the rest of us, does he?" said the lady with mock severity. "Let me tell you, my dear child, that I know this wild boy has said a great deal to you about me, and would like to force you to love me; but even the best intentioned urgency in such matters should be avoided. Glad as I shall be if we can be good friends, we yet will not be forced upon each other."
Manna looked in amazement on the Mother, who asked a great many questions about the convent, and advised her to remain much alone, as the sudden change from a life of seclusion to one of excitement might injure her habits of thought, as well as her health.
Manna felt herself cheered by intercourse with this quiet, composed, harmonious nature; only the room looked strange to her with no images of saints about. Her attention was attracted by the sewing-machine, and the Mother had readily consented to instruct her in the use of it when Aunt Claudine entered, whose dignified bearing interested Manna even more than the Mother had done.
"You and Aunt Claudine," exclaimed Roland, "have two things in common. She is a star gazer like you, and plays the harp as you do."
Aunt Claudine did not require much urging, but willingly played Manna a piece on the harp.
"I shall be very grateful if you will accept me as a pupil," said Manna offering her hand; and the beautiful nervous hand which grasped hers gave her more pleasure by its touch, than she had found in the soft little plump one of the Professorin.
When it grew evening, the Mother and Aunt set out with Roland and Manna towards the villa, Manna walking with the Aunt, and Roland with the Professorin. On the way Eric met them.
"At last!" cried Roland. "Now, Manna, here he is; here you have him."
Manna and Eric exchanged formal bows.
"Why don't you speak? Have you both lost your tongue? Eric, this is my sister Manna; Manna, this is my friend, my brother, my Eric."
"Don't be excited, Roland," said Eric, and there was a ringing tone in his voice that made Manna involuntarily raise her eyes to him. "Yes, Fräulein, this is the second time I have met you in the twilight."
Manna almost began to say that she had seen him once in broad daylight, when she had not spoken to him, but had heard inspiring notes from him; but she checked herself and pressed her lips together. Roland broke the pause that ensued, by saying urgently:—
"Come into the house; then you will see one another by lamplight. It is just a year ago, this hour, since I ran away; can it be only a year? Ah, Manna, you cannot imagine how many hundred years I have lived through in this one. I am as old as the hills, as old as that laughing Sprite the groom told me about."
He repeated the story to his two willing listeners. When he had ended, Eric announced his intention of staying till the next day with his mother, for every one who was not a blood relation was a stranger at such a time as this. Roland would hear nothing of his being a stranger, but Manna's eyes as they gleamed in the darkness seemed to grow larger.
At the new gateway the party divided, Roland and his sister going to the villa, and Eric returning to the green cottage with his mother and aunt. For the second time he had seen Manna, and for the second time she had seemed nothing but eyes.
How strange that this man should look like the picture of Saint Anthony, thought Manna, when she was alone in her room; there seemed to me no point of resemblance between them; some passing look of his, an expression of his eyes, must have reminded Roland of the picture; she too had seen nothing of Eric but his tall figure and his eyes.
She knelt long in prayer, and as she took off her clothes afterwards, she drew more tightly round her waist a girdle—only a little cord it was, which one of the nuns had given her—so tightly that it cut into her flesh.
Before daylight Roland was at Eric's bedside, and waked him, saying:—
"I will go with you to-day."
Eric could not think what the boy meant, till he reminded him of his having said that he ought, at least once every year, to go up on some hill and see the sun rise. Eric remembered saying so, and, hastily putting on his clothes, they walked together up a neighboring eminence. A year ago that morning, Roland said he had for the first time seen the sun rise; then he was alone, now with a friend.
"Let us keep silent," advised Eric. They looked towards the east, and saw the light gradually appear. A new light dawned in Roland's mind; he saw that all the splendor and glory of the world is nothing, compared with the light which belongs alike to all. The richest can make for himself nothing higher than the sunlight, which shines for the poorest in his hovel; the fairest and the highest belongs to all mankind.
Roland fell into a sort of ecstasy, and Eric with difficulty refrained from pressing him to his heart. He was happy, for the sun had risen in Roland, the sun of thought which can never set; clouds may obscure it, but it stands and shines for ever.
The two descended to the river, and bathed joyfully in it under the early light, and to each the water was as a new baptism. The bells were ringing as they returned to the villa, and in the distance they saw Manna going to church.
Herr Sonnenkamp also had risen early, and paid a morning visit to the Professorin.
"I have followed your good advice," he said, "and made Roland no present to-day. Your account of the way in which royal children keep their birthday was charming; they are not to receive, but to give. I have followed your suggestions in every particular, and given Roland nothing but the means and opportunity of bestowing upon others; I owe you double thanks for allowing me to take the entire credit of the idea. Any approach to untruthfulness is distasteful to me, but for my son's sake, I venture to practice a little deception to-day."
The lady pressed her lips together. Here was this man, whose whole life was a lie, trying to pass himself off for a man of truth! But she had already taught herself not to be always inquiring too closely into the motives of good deeds. She asked about the presents that Roland was to distribute, and finally yielded to Sonnenkamp's desire that she should accompany him to the villa.
As they approached the door, a carriage drove up from which jumped Pranken. He had come, he said, because it was Roland's birthday, and expressed great pleasure at hearing that Manna also had arrived: Fräulein Perini's telegram he thought it needless to mention. As he stood upon the terrace overlooking the Rhine, he saw Manna walking up and down not far off with a little book in her hand, and could perceive the motion of her lips as she repeated the words from it.
Fräulein Perini soon appeared, and exchanged a few whispered words with Pranken. Great was her pride at having frustrated the cunningly woven plans of this Professor's family, which so plumed itself on its lofty sense of honor. There was no doubt in her mind that the idea of bringing Manna from the convent had originated with Eric, and she saw further evidence of his plotting, in the girl's having been taken to the green cottage on the very evening of her arrival, and returning delighted with the whole family, especially with Aunt Claudine. With a knowing look at Pranken, Fräulein Perini slyly remarked that the Aunt was kept as a reserve to be brought to bear upon Manna, but she hoped that Pranken and herself would be able to hold the field.
At last Manna herself came upon the terrace, and again offered her left hand to Pranken, as in the right she held her prayer-book. She thanked him cordially for his congratulations that this beautiful spring morning found no blossom wanting on the family tree, and, as he undertook to read what was in her mind, and interpret her feelings at finding herself once more under her father's roof, she said quietly:—
"It is a tent which is spread and folded again."
With great tact Pranken seized upon the expression; he was sufficiently familiar with the ecclesiastical manner of speaking, to be able to construct the whole contingent of meditation and reflection, from which this single remark had been thrown like a solitary soldier on a reconnoissance. He talked with no little eloquence of our pilgrimage through the desert of life, until we reached the promised land, adding that the old man in us must die, for only the new man was worthy to possess the land of promise.
There was a certain conversational fluency in Pranken's manner of speaking which at first repelled Manna, but she seemed pleased, upon the whole, to find this carefully trained, versatile man at home in this sphere of thought. The fact of his belonging to the church, and therefore living among the same ideas with herself, seemed to form a bond of attraction between them. When at length he drew out of his pocket the Thomas à Kempis she had given him, and told her that to that he owed whatever of good was in him, she cast down her eyes, and, laying her hand upon the book, said hurriedly, as she heard the voices of the Professorin and the Major approaching: "Pray put the book back, away."
Pranken obeyed, and while his eyes were fixed upon Manna, kept his hand pressed on the book, which lay against his heart. This common secret established a degree of intimacy at once between himself and the pure, reserved girl.
The Major examined Manna as he would have done a recruit, making her turn round and round, and walk this way and that, that he might judge of her way of moving, all which evolutions Manna went through with great good humor.
"Yes, yes," he said at length, extending the forefinger of his left hand, as he always did when about to bring forth a piece of wisdom; "yes, yes; when it works well, it is all right. Yes, yes; Herr Sonnenkamp, when it works well, it is right, this sending a young man into the army and a young woman into a convent, for a while. When it works well, it is all right."
All nodded assent, and the Major was enchanted at having begun the day by saying a good thing. But he soon changed his tone to one of complaint at Roland's absence; he did not deserve his happiness, keeping out of the way on such an anniversary as this, such a beautiful spring day, too, that if they had ordered it expressly it could not have been finer. He was just about to relate the fearful adventure in the special train, which took place just a year ago that very day, when Roland and Eric at last appeared.
Manna embraced her brother affectionately, as did Pranken also, but Roland quickly disengaged himself from the latter's grasp, and said to Manna:—
"Shake hands with Herr Eric too, for this is his birthday amongst us. A year ago to-day he became mine, or I his; did you not, Eric? Give him your hand."
Manna offered Eric her hand, and for the first time the two looked one another full in the face, in the broad daylight.
"Thank you for the kindness you have shown my brother," said Manna.
Eric was much struck by Manna's appearance; she seemed to him a wonderful mixture of gentle melancholy and lofty pride; her features expressed a cold indifference; her motions were full of grace; there was a bewitching softness in her voice, but mingled with a tone of sadness.
Without knowing or wishing it, Manna became the central point of attraction; even on this fête-day of Roland's, all seemed to turn to her.
Presently the party adjourned to the great hall, where were Eric's mother and aunt, Fräulein Perini and Frau Ceres. Frau Ceres had such fear of the morning air that all the windows were tight shut. She was yawning when Roland entered, but embraced and kissed him. The Professorin also embraced him, saying:—
"I wish you happiness; that is, I wish for you a constantly growing appreciation of the happiness that has been granted you, and a knowledge how to use it."
Sonnenkamp shrugged his shoulders at these words, and said to Pranken, by whom he was standing:—
"How this woman is always trying to say something out of the common course! She has actually forgotten at last how to say a simple good-morning."
"Let us be thankful," rejoined Pranken, "that she has not yet remarked,—As my departed husband, Professor Mummy, used to say."
The two men spoke without any change of expression, so that no one heard or observed them.
Upon a great table lay a number of packages, each inscribed with a name. The Professorin, with Fräulein Milch, had made a list of the boys in the neighborhood of Roland's own age, who were to have presents given them on his birthday. They were mostly apprentices about to set out on their travels, laborers on the Rhine boats, or in the vineyards: some poor and needy persons had also been thought of, and for every one a suitable gift was provided. In the middle of the table lay a large envelope which Sonnenkamp had hastily placed there on his entrance, and on which was written: "For my friend and teacher. Captain Doctor Eric Dournay."
Roland's quick eye soon discovered the envelope, and he handed it to Eric, who, on opening it, found a package of banknotes to a considerable amount. His hand trembled; for a moment he looked about him, then replaced the bills in the envelope, and advancing to Sonnenkamp, who was standing by Manna and Pranken, and had just spoken some words in a low tone to the latter, held the envelope towards him, and, in a voice so agitated that he could scarcely enunciate a word, begged him to take back his gift.
"No, no; do not thank me; it is I who should thank you."
Eric's eyes were cast to the ground, but he raised them and said,—
"Excuse me, I have never in my life accepted any present, and am unwilling—"
"A man of independence like you," interrupted Pranken, "should waste no words on the matter. Take the gift as cordially as it was given."
He spoke as one of the family, almost as if he had presented the money himself. Eric stood abashed, not knowing how to refuse the gift without seeming ungrateful and over delicate. As his eyes fell upon Manna, a pang shot through his heart at the thought of having to appear before her, on this first morning, as a needy receiver of money. He looked at her as if imploring her to speak to him, but she kept silent; seeing no other course open for him, he drew back the hand which held the package, and soon after disappeared from the room.
Without, in the park, he walked thoughtfully to and fro for a while, then, sitting down on the bench where Bella had sat, opened the envelope and counted the money; it amounted to a sum large enough to support a moderate family. As he sat there dreaming and unconscious, holding the envelope between his two hands, and deaf to the song of the birds in the trees and shrubs about him, his name was suddenly called, and the servant Joseph handed him a letter from Professor Einsiedel, congratulating him upon the anniversary, and admonishing him to earn money enough to enable him to lead an independent life, wholly devoted to pure science. The Professor repeated his wish, that there might be some place of retreat established for the reception of men of science in their old age.
Greatly comforted, Eric returned to the company in the drawing-room, who had scarcely missed him.
"That is the way with these idealists, these reformers, these priests of humanity," said Pranken to Sonnenkamp. "See how the Doctor looks as if he had got wings! Yes, that is the way with them. They despise money, till they have it themselves."
Pranken had observed aright. Eric did in truth feel himself endowed with a new power, but also the thought arose in him: Now you too are rich, and can care for others besides yourself. Observing, presently, that he was keeping his hand upon the breast-pocket which contained the money, he drew it away as if it had been upon coals.
The Major and Roland set out upon the performance of a most pleasant office. They had the pony harnessed to the little wagon, in which all the packages were put, and drove through the hamlets, stopping at the various houses, and personally distributing the gifts. First of all they drove to Claus's, in whom the last winter had worked a great change. After the first expressions of sympathy had been received from his neighbors, and he had once washed down all thought and care with a good drink, he took to mitigating his troubles by the all-obliterating wine, or by brandy, if he could get no better. His wife and children were in despair at this change in him, and once the family came to hard words, the Cooper having heard that his father had been begging of a stranger from the other side of the mountains, and complaining of having been ruined by a rich man.
The Gauger and the Burgomaster were amused with Claus's complaints and fierce invectives, his jokes and wise sayings, and supplied him with liquor.
When Roland and the Major arrived at this man's house, it was evident, even at that early hour of the morning, that he had been drinking. Roland was much shocked, but the Major said,—
"Oh, you should not think anything of that. The man drinks too much, but only too much for his own stomach. Where is the harm? If a man is made happy by a glass of wine too much, do let him enjoy it."
The Major's words and Roland's inward happiness soon effaced all recollection of this first meeting. From Claus's they went to Sevenpiper's, where was rejoicing beyond measure.
Roland said, again and again, that this day was the happiest he had ever passed; and the Major impressed upon him that he must not throw his good deeds into the empty air, but accept the good wishes and blessings of those he had relieved from suffering and care.
"Fräulein Milch," he added, "has a good saying, which should be inscribed in the temple: The happiest hour is that which follows the performance of a good deed. Write that in your heart, my boy."
The dogs jumped about the wagon, and Roland cried out to them,—
"Do you too know that this is my happiest day? You poor beasts, I can give you nothing but food; you want neither clothes nor money."
Out of one house Roland came flying, pale as death.
"What has happened to you?" asked the Major.
"Oh, let us get away from here, away!" urged the youth in terror. "I tremble all over, now, at what was done to me. If I had been attacked by robbers, I could not have been more frightened."
"But what was it? Tell me what it was!"
"The old man, whom I brought the clothes and money for, wanted to kiss my hand; that old man—my hand! I thought I should die, I was so frightened. And are you laughing at it?"
"I am not laughing; you were quite right."
The Major looked upon this sensitiveness as one of the results of the nervous fever, and said after a while,—
"Your father has planted a great many trees, and when one thrives he calls it a grateful tree. Do you know what the most grateful tree is? The tree of knowledge and good works."
While Roland's heart was thus swelling with the joy of health and well-doing, Eric was in great depression. He had given his mother Professor Einsiedel's letter, and, sitting beside her, told her how this had comforted him for a while, but that now he was again in a state of great uncertainty, because his relation to Sonnenkamp must henceforth be one of painful dependence; till now he had occupied a free and equal position with regard to him, but now he had received favors, received a gift of money, and had lost his independence.
His mother listened patiently to the end, and then asked,—
"Do you hesitate to accept this gift because it comes from Herr Sonnenkamp? Why not as readily or as reluctantly as from any one else, from Clodwig, for instance?"
She put the question eagerly, thinking she perceived that Eric, as well is herself, was aware of Sonnenkamp's past life; but she was soon assured that he had no suspicion of it, by his replying,—
"Friendship gives differently, and makes it seem hardly a gift; from a friend like Clodwig, I could accept anything."
His mother told him he should consider that the money came from Roland, whose coming of age was only anticipated. But that idea troubled Eric too: it made him feel that he was sent away, paid off; the account was squared between them. His mother reminded him, for his consolation, that no outward pay could compensate for the labor, the burning cheek, the trembling nerves, the planning and thinking by day and by night, which the education of a human being requires. Finally, Eric confessed that it mortified him to have to accept presents before Pranken, and Manna too, the daughter of the house.
"Pranken and Manna are one," answered his mother, "she is his betrothed. But take comfort; look back over the past year, and you will see that you have developed in your pupil a character which nothing can undermine."
This thought finally enabled Eric to rise above all his depression, and when he left his mother's house he had spirit enough to exclaim:—
"Look at Eric, old Father Rhine; he is become an independent man, and can live upon his interest till he is seventy-seven years old!"
He met Roland and the Major returning from their round of visits. It was not for nothing that the Major carried always two watches about with him, one of which he called hisgalloperbecause it was always fast; the only difficulty was, he could never tell whether he had put the galloper in his right or left pocket; however, he was on hand again punctually at dinner-time.
Roland sat at the richly furnished table, but tasted scarcely a morsel.
"I am so full," he said to Eric, "so full of the great happiness I have given to-day. And you—are you not happy too?"
Eric could truly say he was.
There was some discussion as to who should propose the customary toast for Roland; whether it was for Eric or Pranken to do.
Both at length urged the duty upon the Major, who rose and said,—
"Gentlemen and ladies!"
"Bravo!" cried Pranken.
"Thank you," said the Major, "Interrupt me as often as you will; I have learned to take flying leaps, and every obstacle gives me a chance for a higher bound. Once more, ladies and gentlemen! the human race is divided into male and female."
General laughter, which delighted the Major.
"Here you behold a pair in the garden of Eden—"
"Perhaps you would like this to complete your picture?" said Pranken, handing the Major an apple.
Roland was indignant with Pranken for interfering so often, and begged the Major not to let himself be confused by it.
"Be easy, my boy," said the Major in a low voice; "I can stand fire."
Then he continued aloud:—
"So we have here two children, the daughter of the house and the son of the house; and the children have us. They have their parents; they have a grandmother and an aunt by election, and here,"—giving himself a ringing blow on his chest,—"here they have an uncle. We love them as if they were our own blood, and they love us, do they not, children?"
"Yes!" cried Roland, and Manna nodded.
"So then, if I had a son—no, I don't mean that—if I had a teacher for this son of mine—no, I did not mean that either—So, then, our wild rover there—see, he has already a growth upon his face—may the Architect of the universe bless him, and let him grow to be a man who shall understand what is true happiness for himself, for others, for his brethren of all faiths, for all the descendants of man upon the earth."
Amen, he was about to say, but corrected himself, and cried:—"His health, again and again, his health."
The Major sat down, and unbuttoned several buttons behind his napkin.
Sonnenkamp spoke next, and in happily chosen language proposed a toast to Eric, his mother, and his aunt.
"You must speak too; you must speak too," the Major kept urging upon Eric.
Eric rose, and with a light and cheerful tone began:—
"Two things may be particularly noticed, which the Old World has given to the New World of America—the horse and wine. The horse is not a native of America, neither is wine. Germans first planted vineyards in the New World. Two natural objects, therefore, which enlarge the scope of human strength and intellect, we have presented to the New World. I leave out of consideration the kingdom of ideas. My toast is this: May our Roland, who comes to us from the New World, be borne onward and animated by the rich powers beyond himself, to great and noble ends!" He raised his glass with enthusiasm, the sunlight sparkled in the wine, and pointing to it he continued:
"The sun of to-day greets the sun of a past age. What we drink is the offspring of departed days, and what we receive into our soul has ripened in the sun of eternity. Each one of us should be a fruit that shall ripen and live on in the sun of eternity, as God lives in humanity, and in the stars, and in the trees and plants. Holy is the world, and holy should we make ourselves. We are not our own, and what we have is not our own. What we are and what we have belong to the Eternal. My Roland, the bright, smiling, sunny light of this day which is gilding the earth will be turned to the fire of the wine, which after resting and ripening in well sealed casks, in the cool earth, shall presently be carried to strangers through all the lands, to animate and penetrate them with its sunlight. So shall the sun of to-day become fire in our souls, which shall burn brightly through the cold and desolate days that may be in store. May that ripen in you, my Roland, which shall quicken your soul, and rejoice mankind, and convert all life into the free and beautiful temple of God."
Eric's eye encountered a glance from Manna's, as he sat down. She beheld him as it were for the first time. His face wore an expression of ideality, of spirituality, which seemed to subdue all passion, and a look of such manly decision as made her feel, If, in danger, I had this man by my side, I should have an all-sufficient help. But she needed no help.
Sonnenkamp and Pranken shrugged their shoulders at the conclusion of Eric's speech, and had to repress a laugh which was provoked by Sonnenkamp's whispering to his neighbor,—
"The man almost seems to believe what he says."
A diversion was here made by the arrival of the Doctor, and of the Justice's Lina, who was eager to greet her friend upon her "return to life," as she called it. All arose from the table in excellent spirits.