He began to read, and his face darkened, then flushed purple; the veins in his forehead swelled, and he held the paper nearer to his eyes, as if he could not trust them. "Hell and damnation!" he suddenly shouted, read on, then hurled the paper from him with another imprecation, sprang up, and walked heavily to the window.
His sister followed him. "Dear Johann!" she said, in a trembling tone of entreaty. He did not hear her. For a moment she stood beside him uncertain, then went back to the table, picked up the paper, found the marked place, and read Dr. Stein's notice about Johanna.
What was to be done? The announcement of her death would not have been so bad. Mechanically she fumbled among the letters lying on the table, when suddenly her eyes fell upon an envelope addressed in Löbel Wolf's hand, and picking it up, she again went up to her brother. "Dear Johann," she said, laying her hand upon his arm, "it cannot be our Johanna! Here is a letter from Löbel Wolf that may explain——"
"Give it to me!" the Freiherr cried. And, tearing open the envelope, he hurriedly read the letter. His hand trembled, his breath came short and fast. "Artist-blood!" he said, at last, with a laugh that wrung his sister's heart. "She rejects my proposal with regard to the jewels, because she possesses a talent by which she hopes to make an independence!"
He folded his arms upon his breast, and began to pace the room to and fro. Aunt Thekla sank trembling into an arm-chair; the tears rolled down her withered cheek as she looked up sadly at her brother. As he had once suffered with his daughter he was now suffering with his grand-daughter. His head was sunk upon his breast; the white eyebrows were gathered in a frown; his breath came almost like a groan.
For a long while he paced thus. Suddenly he stopped in the middle of the room and stood erect with an effort, then resumed his walk, muttering in the deep, low tones which his people so dreaded, "I have been wrong, and am suffering for it! I ought to have known that between Dönninghausen and the daughter of a player there yawns a gulf which nothing can bridge over. But I am grown old, Thekla; old and weak! I loved the girl more than any other of my children's children. I thought I recognised in her my own thoughts, my own feelings, my own ideas of right and honour. All wrong, Thekla! The illusions of a weak old man, or a farce played by a girl. They say her father was a great man among the players." And again he laughed loud and scornfully.
"Johann, dear Johann, you are wrong!" sobbed Aunt Thekla.
The Freiherr paused before her. "You are right," he said, more gently. "She did not deceive me intentionally, she was not false; only given over to the curse that cleaves to her blood. It is not her fault; it is and must always be mine for bringing her here, and for all but wasting upon her the name of our race. Thank heaven!" he went on, after a pause, laying his hand heavily upon his sister's shoulder,—"thank heaven, it did not come to that. And I make a vow now to myself and to all of you that from this hour there shall be no more of such weakness. I will not waste another thought upon this unfortunate creature. All the strength and force yet left me shall be devoted to Dönninghausen, and my care shall be for the genuine children of my house who do honour to me and to my name."
Thekla pressed her brother's hand to her lips, and wept afresh.
"Be quiet!" he said, with rough cordiality. "'Close up the ranks' must be the order to obey in life as on the battle-field. The fewer the survivors, the more they must cling together. I think we Dönninghausens can stand our ground."