A Noble Name; or, Dönninghausen

by Claire von Glümer

Otto muttered an imprecation. He could not possibly go away without further question; to do so would give rise to all sorts of commentaries by the servants. Besides, the bell was just ringing for the second breakfast; not to obey its summons would be regarded by his grandfather as a transgression of the rules of the house, and it was more than ever incumbent upon Otto to keep the old man in good humour.

"This is another of my unlucky days. I should like to know whether other men have as much to bear as I," he said to himself as he walked towards the castle. "I wonder how Johanna will receive me? She cannot yet have told my grandfather anything, and she will have at least to control herself. Perhaps it is best it should be so. The necessity of preserving appearances may bring her to her senses."

But his hopes proved fallacious; Johanna did not appear. Aunt Thekla reported, with an anxious face, that hearing that Johanna was prevented by a violent headache from coming to breakfast, she had been to look after her, and had found her terribly pale.

"She was lying on the lounge," the old lady went on, "with her eyes closed, and could only say, in a faint voice, 'All I want, dear aunt, is rest!' I thought the fresh air would do her good; but when I began to draw aside the curtains she started up, begging me not to do so, but to leave her in darkness: he did not wish to see or to hear anything; and then she sank back and lay perfectly quiet."

"Have you sent for the doctor?" the Freiherr interposed.

"No; she forbade it; I can't tell why. Her indisposition is her own fault; she has been taking one of those wild rides again, and does not want to confess it. Indeed, dear Johann, you must forbid her riding so much."

"Nonsense!" cried the Freiherr. "What has riding to do with it? You women could not exist without your headaches. Johanna is following the fashion. But what the deuce is the matter with you, lad?" he blurted out, turning to Otto, half laughing, half vexed. "Letting every dish pass you untasted, and looking like——have you a headache out of pure sympathy? Don't drive me altogether wild!"

Otto tried to control himself; but Aunt Thekla's suspicions had been aroused and would not be laid to rest. After breakfast, while the Freiherr was reading the papers, she drew Otto into one of the window-recesses, and said, with decision, "Something has occurred between Johanna and you. Tell me what it is. You know how I love you both."

Otto would have refused to satisfy her anxiety; but when he looked into his aunt's kind, pleading eyes, he remembered how often he had as a boy appealed to her, and never in vain, for aid, and it struck him that he could find no better intercessor. "You are right, my dear aunt," he replied, kissing her hand. "I will make my confession to you, hard though it is. You are my last, my sole hope,—and you will help me, I know, and not reproach me. Heaven knows I do that enough myself!" And he told her, briefly, and with as much frankness as he could command, the history of his betrothal, and of to-day's wretched scene in the forest.

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 Dönninghausens 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.