CHAPTER II.
AN ISLAND PLOUGHED UP.
Humility, respect, and helpful kindness were manifest in Sonnenkamp's whole demeanor, as he extended his hand to the Professorin on her getting out of the carriage; as he conducted her to the steamboat; as he looked out for a seat protected from the draught and giving an uninterrupted prospect; as he supplied all her wants and asked if there was any thing he could do for her.
The Professorin was startled when she perceived that she had forgotten a book which she had laid upon the table, intending to take it with her, but had left it there. She evaded Sonnenkamp's question what was the name of the book, for she could well imagine, that the writings of the man she held in such high veneration would not be agreeable to Sonnenkamp. She said in a joking way that she had lived so long in the society of the learned world, that even making a trip on the Rhine, in a clear, bright sunshine, she thought she must have a book with her. She must give herself up wholly to the scenery and to her own thoughts.
Sonnenkamp seated himself near her, and said in a tone of genuine emotion, that he could not but congratulate his children, nay, almost envy them, that they were to live in the society of a woman of such a youthful spirit.
The more he talked, the tenderer he became, and his eyes glistened as if moistened with tears. He frequently said that he could not speak of his youthful years, which were arid and desolate, with no gentle hand of woman to soothe him with caresses. The strong man was deeply moved, as he spoke of his childhood in words that partly veiled and partly revealed his meaning. At last he came to the main point, composing himself by a violent effort. The Professorin felt that she must first inquire into the reason why Manna had became so alienated from him. Bending down his head, he proceeded to say:—
"They may have told her something that I disdained to contradict. Were you, honored lady, to know what it was, you would without hesitation pronounce it to be a falsehood devised by the most malignant hostility."
The Professorin desired to know what was said, but he replied that if he should repeat it, he should run mad here on board the boat. His features, that had been composed and placid, were suddenly distorted in a fearful manner.
The Professorin now dwelt upon the visit that she was going to make to the Superior, the friend of her youth, and begged Herr Sonnenkamp to avoid all direct endeavor to influence his daughter in favor of herself.
"Children," she said, "must make their own friends, and they cannot receive them ready made from others. One must be careful not to intrude one's self upon them, and to wait quietly and patiently, until they come of their own accord."
Sonnenkamp considered this so judicious, that he promised not to go with her, in the first instance, to the island, but to remain at the inn on this side of the river until the Professorin should send for him.
"You are as good as you are wise," he said praisingly, for he detected as he thought in the lady's unobtrusiveness a politic motive; and he was pleased in the notion of circumventing all cunning with a deeper cunning still.
While Sonnenkamp and the Mother were sailing down the Rhine, a strange circumstance occurred on the convent-island From one end of the year to the other, no horse was to be seen upon the island, except when the ground was ploughed. The pupils in amazement pointed out to each other a plough, which a horse was drawing up and down the extreme point of the island. A noble-looking farmer in a blue blouse, and with a gray hat drawn down over his eyes, was guiding the plough. The children stood at a distance watching the plough, as if it were some novel wonder, and looked at Manna for permission to go nearer in order to observe it. She nodded permission, and they walked along the gravelled walk by the side of the field. Then the ploughman, taking off his hat, made a salutation; Manna remained standing with a fixed look as if she were under a spell. Is that not Herr von Pranken? He continued his ploughing and said nothing. As he turned the plough, to come back, he looked towards her and smiled; it was he.
"He's a splendid-looking ploughman," said one of the girls.
"And he seems so genteel," exclaimed another.
"And he has a seal ring on his finger," cried a third. "Who knows that this is not a knight in disguise!"
Manna called to the children to return with her. She went into her cell, from which the field could be overlooked, but she kept away from the window. She felt flattered that Pranken should subject himself to the most humble condition, in order to be near her, and she felt grateful to him for being so modest and considerate as not to speak to her. She debated with herself whether she should not mention it to the Superior, but she came to the conclusion that she had no right to betray Herr von Pranken's secret; besides, so far from there being any harm in it, it was the noblest tribute of respect.
Going to the window, she saw that he kept steadily at his work, and he had never seemed to her so pure and noble, so lovable as now, engaged in this rustic labor.
On the window-sill was a rose-bush with a late rose in full bloom. Looking up she caught sight of it, and took hold of the stem, thinking she would pluck and throw it to him as a sign of recognition; but just then, a lay-sister came in and informed her that a visitor had come who asked to see Manna. The rose remained on its stem.
Manna turned round and seemed perplexed. Pranken is still there ploughing. Could he be the one who was announced? or has the Countess Bella arrived? With wavering step she descended to the reception-room. The Superior introduced to her a good-looking, portly lady, saying:—
"This is my friend, Professorin Dournay, the mother of your brother's teacher."