A call from Möllner to Gretchen separated the young people before they found words to express what they felt. Ernestine grew so much worse in the course of the night that Gretchen did not leave her again. When at last the rays of the rising sun shone through the heavy curtains of the room, the Staatsräthin released the poor child from her painful watch, and she was free to hasten to her lover. He drew her with him to Ernestine's study. Everything was just as it had been left on the day when Ernestine was taken ill,--nothing had been touched here. The ashes of the burnt fairy-book were still lying on the hearth, the Æolian harp breathed forth sad melody to the rude autumn wind, the roses were fled, and only the thorn-covered bushes remained. The chests were still standing about, all packed for the voyage,--speaking plainly of what had been the plans of the proud spirit now so prostrated by disease. A forgotten pen lay upon the desk, and dust was everywhere. No one had thought of arranging this room,--care for Ernestine had given abundant occupation to the entire household. The pause in the life of the invalid was mirrored in this apartment, where everything seemed awaiting the moment when a busy hand should sweep, dust, and put all in order, and the glad news be heard--"Ernestine is better!" But this moment was still in the dim future. Hither the young couple came, ignorant of the struggles these walls had witnessed, the pain and anguish that had been suffered here.
"Our life lasts seventy--perhaps eighty--years, and the delight of it is labour and trouble." These words, carved on the table, were the first visible sign to these youthful hearts of the struggles, sufferings, and sacrifices of the woman by whose feverish bed they had truly found each other. And Gretchen stayed her steps by the table, and read the words thoughtfully. "She is right," she said to herself. "And if she chose to impose upon herself this severe law, can I choose any other motto--I? What right have I to desire any other delight in life but labour and trouble and penance? Ah, Ernestine, now first I see how noble you are, and what wrong my father did you."
"Gretchen," asked Hilsborn, "what are you thinking?"
"It seems to me as if an invisible hand here inscribed, 'Hold!' for my eyes alone. How could I for one moment resign myself to the thought of a happiness that could turn me aside from my first and most sacred duty?"
"Gretchen, how am I to understand you?"
She clasped her hands, and, with eyes fixed reverentially upon the carved motto, said, "All my hopes and dreams must be sacrificed for her whose motto this is. Until she is happy, how can I wish to be so?"
"I see what you have resolved, my dearest. You intend to obtain forgiveness for your father, to blot out his sin by your devotion. But you think only of her against whom your father sinned most heavily? There is another to whom you owe some reparation on his account, and that is myself!"
"What?"
He drew her towards him, and went on with all a lover's sophistry. "Yes, dearest, your father wronged mine. He robbed him of a valuable scientific discovery."
"Heaven help me! is this so?" cried the girl, greatly distressed.