He never left Ulrich's bed. His rest was taken on the floor at its foot, and with cognac and champagne he kept at bay the sleep that was so necessary to his powerful physique, which he would not allow to feel the strain of watching.
He had been morally so cast down and broken by the events of the last few weeks that even now he could hardly believe in reawakened expectations of happiness or hopes for Ulrich's recovery, except by a miracle.
An extra anxiety was added to his burden, when Johanna appeared one evening at the door of the sick-room, and declared that the time had come for her to see Ulrich; God had directed that she should speak with him before he died.
Leo's assurances that the patient would not be able to recognise or understand her were in vain, and as in desperation he tried to remove her from the corridor by force, she began to rave.
The next morning, at her own express wish, she was taken to an asylum.
In these days of trouble and sorrow, when even grandmamma had lost her old nerve and presence of mind, and ran hither and thither, crying and wringing her hands, Hertha was a never-failing prop to lean upon, and an indefatigable helper. She kept the household going in its customary routine, and carried the master's orders to the steward and bailiffs. Even to desolate Uhlenfelde she stretched out a helping hand.
A silent understanding had come about between her and Leo, which was regarded by every one as perfectly natural, for it was an accepted thing that they belonged to each other.
When he met the glance of her bright eyes, hanging questioningly on his lips, he thought, "She has suffered, so she will be able to forgive."
But first Ulrich's recovery, and the rest would come right of itself.
The recovery came.