Ernestine looked up at him with glistening eyes, and breathed, scarcely audibly, "Farewell, my friend."
Johannes pressed her hand, and then, turning to his mother, said, "Dear mother, I leave Ernestine to you for an hour, and hope with all my heart that you will understand each other. But, at all events, remember what you promised me."
"Most certainly I will, my son." He went as far as the door, then lingered, and, calling his mother to him, whispered imploringly, "Be kind to her,--all that you do for her you do for me."
And, with one more look of longing love at Ernestine, he was gone. It was very hard to go. It seemed to him that he must stay,--that Ernestine would escape him if he did not guard her well. He would have turned back again if his duty had not been so imperative. "If I only find her here when I return!" he said to himself one moment, and the next he blamed himself for his childish weakness. He loved her too well. The one hour of lecture seemed to him an eternity. He longed to see her again almost before he had crossed the threshold that separated him from her.
How beautiful she was to-day after her refreshing sleep,--how maidenly! If, when he returned, she looked at him with those glistening eyes, he could not control himself,--he would throw himself at her feet and implore her to be his. The decisive word must be spoken,--he must have certainty. The state of doubt into which he was plunged by the strange contrast between Ernestine's cold, stubbornly expressed opinions and her tender personal behaviour towards himself was not to be borne any longer. Only one hour separated him from the goal for which he longed with every pulse of his strong, manly nature. Oh, were it only over!
"Do you like beans?" the Staatsräthin asked Ernestine.
"Why do you ask me?"
"Only because you are to have them at dinner to-day."
"Thank you, but I cannot dine with you."
"Why not?"