And Johannes, true and without guile as he was, endured a terrible trial in Ernestine's sufferings. From hour to hour he became more thoroughly convinced that he had been the means of prostrating Ernestine upon a sick-bed,--that he had burdened her beyond her strength by his reckless description of the danger that threatened her,--and he was a prey to remorse. He reproached himself bitterly, and tormented himself with devising a thousand ways in which he could have managed matters more wisely. "It is presumptuous to attempt to play the part of Providence to another, for the best intentions are no warrant for the consequences," he said to his mother, just when Gretchen and Hilsborn were weaving their rosy future.
"Results are always in God's hand," replied Frau Möllner.
"Amen!" said Johannes solemnly, from the depths of his tortured heart.
Thus the pilot, seeing looming before him the dangerous rock, past which his skill has not availed to guide the vessel intrusted to his care, says, "I have done what I could, now Providence takes the helm." And here too Providence was guiding the vessel, but slowly,--so slowly that the lookers-on were agonized.
Day after day and week after week passed, without any visible improvement. Ernestine's consciousness did not return. Heim shook his head. He said to Johannes one morning, "I wish your brother-in-law were at home, Johannes. I should very much like to hear his opinion of the case."
And he made no other reply to Johannes' inquiries.
Moritz Kern and his wife had been employing the vacation in a pleasure-trip, and were shortly to return home.
It looked as if Heim were coming to a conclusion, and did not wish to pronounce an opinion without consulting a third authority.
Johannes was consumed by anxiety. For four weeks he never left Ernestine's bedside, only sleeping when she was quiet, and then with his weary head supported against the back of his chair. He would have no help, except from his mother and Gretchen. Even Willmers was not allowed to do all that she wished to do. Only one stranger was now and then admitted to the sick-room,--a venerable, aged form, that sat there motionless, disturbing no one. It was old Leonhardt. Every third day his son conducted him to the castle, and no one had the heart to refuse to allow him to take his place at the foot of Ernestine's bed, where he listened to her gloomy ravings and Möllner's deep-drawn sighs, and only now and then sadly shook his gray head.
"If she would only come to herself sufficiently," he said one day, "to let us relieve her mind of this anxiety about dying, that seems at the root of her delirium, she would soon be better."