CHAPTER IX.
HERO ROLAND'S MOTTO.
The Professor's wife announced herself at Manna's door; Manna opened it. With a bloodless countenance, she stood, before the Mother and languidly-held out her hand.
"I have wrestled with myself all alone," she said; "I cannot find the outlet; I must tell you all."
And now Manna related how she had grown up in most reverent respect for her father, and how she had often painfully lamented that her mother was so harsh and cold to him; but once—she had never learned what had transpired previously—her mother had said in the presence of her father:—
"'Know then who your father is, who your father is.' Don't look at me, I beg of you; I beg you, let me speak it softly in your ear."
She whispered the words softly in the ear of the Professorin. The latter sat there and held her hands in her lap, and shut her eyes; not a sound was heard in the room: it seemed as if the whole world was dead, and the two human beings that sat there opposite to each other, dead as well. Manna went on to say that she did not at first understand what this meant, but gradually it had come to her, and she had persuaded her, parents to let her go to the convent. On the way thither the thought was continually present to her, how, in old times, Iphigenia had offered herself up as a propitiatory sacrifice, and so she longed to offer herself up a willing and a hopeful victim, to wash away all the guilt of those who were dear to her.
"I felt then as if something had been cleft within me, as if a vein had burst in my heart. I looked upon myself as a victim on the altar. I had the courage then, I wanted to act decisively before that courage deserted me, for I was afraid of my own cowardice, and for that reason was anxious to bind myself at once."
Again, after a longer pause—the Professorin did not interrupt with a single word—Manna said that she did not understand what her father was doing, and she, she herself must be made noble, and become Pranken's bride, of equal rank with him. She had honored and esteemed Pranken; he was a man of the world, but of a profoundly generous and religious character.
Sobbing bitterly, she threw herself upon the mother's neck, and exclaimed:—
"I cannot! I cannot be his wife. Ah! I am too weak. You have told me that I should have to experience trying conflicts, but I had never thought, never dreamt of such a thing as this. No; no, indeed."
"What more?" asked the Mother.
Manna hid her face in her hands, then threw herself upon the Mother's neck and wept.
"The Mother entreated her to let her know the rest, but Manna remained silent; finally she uttered the words:—
"No, I shall take it with me into the grave; it is mine alone."
The Professorin spoke words of hope and comfort to her, and asked her whether she had ever mentioned in confession what she now confessed to her. Manna said no, and then threw herself upon her knees before the Mother, and besought her to tell no one what she had related of her father. But she started up suddenly as if bitten by a serpent, when the Professorin told her that she had known it all a long while, that it had been a heavy burden to her, but that it was the duty of the innocent not to withdraw themselves from one who seeks to efface a wretched past.
A strange agitation swept over Manna's countenance.
"Who else knows it? Tell me."
"Why should I, my child? Why do you so torment your soul, and make it wander from house to house, from man to man, crushed, begging, and imploring forgiveness?"
"My prayer, my sacrifice is rejected; I am cast out, we are all cast out. No, I am free; the holy ones in heaven have not been willing to accept my sacrifice. It shall live within my own bosom only, within myself, within my crushed and shattered heart. I am free—free."
"Your laugh makes me feel uneasy," said the Professorin, who was observing closely the play of Manna's features. Manna moaned that her sorrow was sevenfold.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "I have spoken with my brother only once about slavery, and then I felt as if something was whirling around me, when he said, Beings who are admitted to religious life are our equals. He is right; whoever enters the sanctuary of the knowledge of God is a free child of God; and I shuddered when I thought for the first time how it could be possible for a man to be praying in church, and have near by, separated from him only by a railing, men who were slaves. Is not his every word of prayer, is not his offering, a lie? It was a frightful pathway upon which I had entered, and all the powers of evil were pushing me on further and further. How is it then? how can a priest receive the child of a man, how could he receive us into the church, while our father still-—-"
As if a weight lay on her heart. Manna placed her hand there, and seemed unable to go on.
The Professorin consoled her.
"My child," she said, "do not lay the blame on Religion; cast no stone at those who cannot accomplish everything, who cannot equalize all the inequalities that have come into the world from sin. The temple is great, pure, and sublime, even though cares, sloth, and base submission have found hiding-places in it."
From the bottom of her heart, the Professorin sought to keep Manna from losing her hold upon religion; she spoke with enthusiasm of those who devote their whole existence to the Most High, who restlessly work and strive, without reward, to fashion the earth into a dwelling-place of love and virtue.
Manna looked up astonished at the woman who thus counselled her; her lips parted, but she could not utter the words that lay upon her tongue; she wanted to ask. "But are you not a Huguenot?" But she kept back the words, for it seemed to her at this moment as if every difference in form of religious belief had been blotted out; here was indeed nothing but a heart simple in its purpose, gentle, patient, suffering, and devoted to good. Now she felt that she had fully and entirely devoted herself to the noble woman; she flung herself into her arms; with tears in her eyes she kissed the Mother's cheeks, forehead, and hands, and asked her to lay her hands upon her head, and save her from dying of grief.
Silent and locked in each other's arms sat the two women, when a knock was heard at the door.
Sonnenkamp called out that he must speak with his daughter.
"You must speak to him," said the Professorin.
Manna rose, and pushed back the bolts of the door.
Sonnenkamp entered.
"I am glad you are well again," said he in a clear voice to the Professor's wife.
He did not dream with what eyes the Professorin and his child regarded him.
"I thank you," he continued, making a gesture which was intended to signify that he desired to be alone with Manna.
Manna perceived it, and she begged—she could not express her agony, but she begged earnestly—that her father would permit the Professorin to be present at the conversation; she had no secrets from the noble woman.
Sonnenkamp shrugged his shoulders.
Was it possible? No, it could not be, his own child could not have betrayed him.
He now said plainly that he would rather speak with Manna alone.
The Professorin rose to go, and Sonnenkamp begged her in a kindly tone to keep his wife company during his absence, and give her all the instruction and advice necessary to enable her to enter upon her new sphere of life with becoming repose and dignity.
The Professorin bowed and left them.
Manna had to sit down; she felt as if her limbs would never again support her; Sonnenkamp said to her that she had doubtless long ago forgotten the bitter epithet that her mother had applied to him; she might now go to her mother, who would assure her, that she had only made use of the words in anger.
Manna nodded, without saying a word; and then Sonnenkamp spoke of her marriage with Pranken, in regard to which he took a pride in feeling that he had never laid any constraint upon his child. Manna implored him not to press the matter upon her then.
"Very well, you need not make up your mind till our return, but promise me to be friendly to him."
Manna could promise this, and Sonnenkamp smiled inwardly at the thought of his keeping Pranken in suspense until everything was finally arranged; if any insurmountable difficulty came up then, it could not change what would be already settled.
"You are now a Freifräulein," said he impressively and smiling to his child, "you shall be free in everything; only, to-day, let everything remain still in suspense. I cannot be dishonorable." He really meant, that he did not so much mind deceiving Pranken, but he added that it would be much more proper to consent or to refuse when they had been for a short time, in the full possession of their new rank. And with that, he took leave of his child with friendly words.
At noon there was great rejoicing at the villa, for the Ensign with a number of his comrades had arrived; they rode out with Roland, who was treated as one of themselves.
In accordance with Pranken's wish, they started that evening for the capital.
When Roland took leave of Eric's mother, she gave him a paper on which was written,—
On the rim of the Hero Roland's helmet was once and is again inscribed, in golden letters,—"The weapons of the whole world must leave me still unstained."