"You do not understand me," he went on, after a pause. "Let me tell you a short story. A few years ago my father adopted a poor orphan, a girl sixteen years old, the daughter of a distant relative. Sara was beautiful and good. She soon occupied my heart and thoughts. I was, however, not free. We Jews, like the children of princes and of peasants, are betrothed by the mutual agreement of heads of families. My betrothed, who loved another, was bolder than I, and afterward married the man of her choice. But at this time I felt myself fettered by what I might call the bashful sense of filial piety, which causes so many of my race to cleave outwardly to traditions which they have really outlived. Only a Jew can feel and understand this. I controlled myself with all my force, and I do not think that I ever betrayed myself, that Sara ever suspected how happy and how miserable she made me. She was not only worthy of love, she craved love. One day a dashing young soldier came to visit his family, whose estates were in our neighbourhood. He constantly had money-transactions with my father. Chance brought him into contact with Sara. How shall I tell the rest? She found favour in his eyes. And why not? She was a poor Jewish girl; he might trifle with her as he chose; it involved no responsibility for him. The next time I paid a visit at my home I soon saw how matters stood. I saw that my poor Sara was lost. But I struggled against this conviction; at least I would make an attempt to rescue one so dear to me. I thrust myself into her confidence with fire and sword. I left her no illusions with regard to the man to whom she was ready to sacrifice all, perhaps had already sacrificed all. I had controlled my love; I gave my jealousy free play. Sara's despair wrung my heart, but I thought I was doing right. Then, with my consent, she had an interview with the scoundrel. On the evening of the same day she was taken drowned from the canal which runs at the foot of my father's garden. The neighbours said she must have fallen in while getting water, which she always did herself when she was watering her flowers; my father believed this, and I would gladly have believed it. But upon my writing-table I found a slip of paper, upon which she had written in scarcely-legible characters, 'You are right.' I need not tell you the man's name to explain my interest in you. And now, if you please, we will never speak of this again."
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE FREIHERR'S WEAKNESS IS PAST.
Not until Johanna was once more alone did she appreciate the extent of the mischief wrought by Batti. If he were capable of such conduct after offering her shelter and protection, she could trust him no longer, could accept no further kindness from him. She must sever the only family tie she now possessed.
The longer she pondered thus, the heavier grew her heart. She dreaded solitude, her own inexperience, and the curiosity and impertinence of others. But most of all she dreaded separation from Lisbeth; and, moreover, she asked herself how she could leave the child amid surroundings that imperilled both her spiritual and her material welfare. After some reflection, however, she convinced herself that she never could shield the child by her influence alone, and the next morning when she awoke from a short but refreshing sleep, she made up her mind to do quickly what must be done.
Helena was sitting alone, in an evident ill humour, at the breakfast-table, when Johanna and Lisbeth made their appearance; and when the child, after embracing her mother, asked after Uncle Carlo, she was crossly told to be quiet, that he had gone to the circus. Turning to Johanna, Helena added, "He cannot ride out with you to-day; he has too much to do."
"Let us call things by their right names," Johanna rejoined. "It is disagreeable to him to meet me since by his permission an article concerning me has appeared in the papers."
"You are mistaken! It was not Carlo's fault!" exclaimed Helena. "On the contrary, Stein and he have had a quarrel about it——"
"My dear Helena," Johanna interrupted her, "the newspaper article was written in consequence of a wager between Batti and Dr. Stein, and who, if not Batti, could have informed the writer of the circumstances of my mother's marriage, of my betrothal, of my estrangement from my grandfather, and of my unlucky gift of horsemanship?"