"The idea only occurred to me afterwards when--"
"When you learnt that the Doctor over there was not invited," completed Mr. Hummel. "Your mother is a very worthy woman, for whom I entertain the highest respect, but it sometimes happens that one can screw a secret out of her. When you thus ruminate over what neither your father nor the world should know, you should confide it to no one, either in our house or in any other."
"Very well," said Laura, with decision; "if you have discovered it, hear it now from me. I am a plebeian just as much as Fritz Hahn is; he has been in the society of those Court people more frequently than I; their taking no notice of him made it clear to me that they considered one who is his equal as a superfluous addition."
An expression of irony overspread the broad features of Mr. Hummel.
"So that fellow over there is your equal?" he began; "that is exactly what I wished to disabuse your mind of. I should not approve of your regulating your feelings according to that weather-cock over the way. I do not choose that the idea should ever come into the head of Hahn Junior to build an arch across the street, and to wander about in slippers from one house to the other. The thought does not please me. I will bring forward only one reason, which has nothing to do with the old grudge. He is his father's son, and he has no real energy of character. One who can endure to sit year after year in that straw-nest, turning over the pages of books, would not, if I were a girl, be the man for me. It is possible that he may be very learned, and may know much about things that other men care little for; but I have not yet heard that he has accomplished anything by it. Therefore, if that should happen, which will not happen so long as the property over there is a poultry-yard,--if I, Henry Hummel, should consent that my only child should sit knitting stockings in front of the white Muse, it would be a misfortune for my child herself. For you are my daughter. You are just as self-willed as I am; and if you should get among those white-livered people, you would disturb them lamentably, and be very unhappy yourself. Therefore, I am of opinion that your headache was silliness, and I wish never to hear again of like ailments. Good day, Miss Hummel."
He strode out of the door, and as he heavily descended the stairs, he hummed the tune:
"Bloom, sweet violet, that I myself have reared."
Laura sat at her writing-table supporting her heavy head with both her hands. This had been a trying scene. The speech of her stern father had wounded her deeply. But in his depreciating observations on their neighbor's son there was a certain truth, which had already crept like a hateful spider over the bright leaves of her sympathy. He must go out into the world. Her friends below were thinking of going into foreign parts. Ah! she herself, a poor bird, fluttered her wings in vain, for the fetters on her feet held her back. But he could free himself. She would lose him from her neighborhood, perhaps lose him for ever; but this ought not to hinder her from telling him the truth. She hastily searched among the old sheets; she could find but one ballad, which undoubtedly did not fit the Doctor, inasmuch as it expressed the feelings of a dissolute wanderer. The song was inappropriate, but there was none better. Our ancestors, when not occupied in highway exploits, took little pleasure in travelling. The letter must do the work. She wrote as follows:--
"The summer birds are flying, and man also yearns after the distant lands of his dreams. Do not be angry with the sender of this, for begging you to imbibe something of the spirit of this song. Your home is too narrow for you. Your merits are not appreciated here as they deserve. You are deprived in the quiet house of your parents of those experiences which a man gains when he forms his life by his own qualifications. I well know that your highest task will always be to promote learning by your writings. That you may do everywhere. But do not think it beneath you to influence younger minds by personal intercourse with them, and to participate in the struggles of their generation. Away, Doctor! the unknown bird sings to you the song of the wanderer. With sorrow will your loss be felt by those you leave behind."
About the same hour, Gabriel was sitting in his room brushing the last specks of dust from his best livery which he had spread over a chair. At his feet lay the red dog, licking his paws and giving utterance to an occasional growl. Gabriel looked contemptuously at the dog.