"Now, because you are angry with Otto, are you going to make Johann Leopold unhappy?" Aunt Thekla continued. "Remember how you talked about your marriage before he went away."
Magelone jumped up and threw her arms about her aunt's neck. "No, I will not make him unhappy!" she cried. "I know now all that he is to me. I shall be so happy if he will only love me and help me; and when one is happy one's self it is easy to make others happy. And you are right, dear aunt; grandpapa must not be told anything. He shall see how happy we are, and how I will try to be a credit to you all."
Kind old Aunt Thekla was conquered. If Magelone was conscious of the wrong she had done, and was longing to live a new life, how could any one place any obstacle in the way of her marriage with Johann Leopold? But there was still one objection in her mind. "Dear Magelone," she said, "you are right to think that only when we are happy ourselves can we make others so; but shall you be happy? Johann Leopold will be to you the most faithful and judicious of friends, but the love for which you long is not his to give. You know the touching fidelity with which he clings to the memory of his Albertine."
Magelone smiled triumphantly. "Oh, Aunt Thekla," she exclaimed, "I have nothing to fear from that dead Albertine! Before his departure, Johann Leopold wrote me a veritable, genuine love-letter. To call me his is his most fervent desire. He hopes to win my heart when he returns. And even although I give him up, he must always be devoted to me. So you see——"
Aunt Thekla saw that she had again been entirely mistaken. She saw that man's fidelity, Schiller's assertion notwithstanding, is a mere illusion; saw that there was no fitting place for her in this age of steam, when everything is whirled into the past with such lightning rapidity. And while she resigned herself to melancholy reflection, Magelone shook care and repentance, anger and love's pain, from her wings, and soared singing into her world like the lark.
When Löbel Wolf, true to his promise, went, a few days after this, to Hanover, and called upon Johanna, she had just driven out with her little convalescent. A great part of the time which he had reserved for her was thus wasted, but the short interview which he was able to obtain with her was long enough to convince him of the uselessness of further persuasion. She repeated to the father what she had already told the son,—that she either had no claim to the possession of the jewels, or that she ought not to sell them, and added, "Entreat my grandfather to have no anxiety upon my account. Heaven has endowed me with a talent by which I hope to earn my daily bread."
Löbel Wolf shook his head. He was sorry to find her so stubborn and unpractical. He had no desire to report personally the failure of this second attempt. He wrote to the Freiherr, and repeated to him faithfully Johanna's words.
The following evening Johanna and Lisbeth were alone together in Helena's little drawing-room. The weather was oppressively warm; all the windows were open, but they seemed to admit only the dust and noise of the street.
The child was sitting on the window-seat, with her sister's arm around her. She was impatiently watching the passing equipages, and wondering why her mamma never, never stayed at home. Then, bursting into tears, she added, "I do not want to be always waiting, waiting here. You must go away with me, Johanna."
Before Johanna could reply, there was a knock at the door, and in answer to her "Come in!" Dr. Wolf entered the room.