Only a Girl: or, A Physician for the Soul.

by Wilhelmine von Hillern

She threaded her needle with difficulty, and began to sew again. Two large tears fell upon her work, but she brushed them hastily away, that Gretchen might not see them.

"Dear Ernestine," Gretchen said, when she had carried away the plates, "I must go now, for half-past one has struck. Do not sew too long, and pray forget your sad thoughts. Some place for you is sure to offer. It would, to be sure, have been better if we could have lived in Frankfort, instead of coming out here to Rothelheim. Then you would have been able to see the people yourself. But the living there was really too expensive, and I was certain of employment here. Oh, if people only knew you, they would seize upon you instantly. If I could only induce my good directress to see you, she never could withstand you! Now good-by, dearest and best,--all good spirits protect you in the dark,--you know we have no light this evening!"

"Never mind that, Gretchen. I will think of father Leonhardt, who is always in the dark, while for us the sun will surely rise again."

"Yes indeed, Ernestine, always remember that,--'The sun will surely rise for us,' Gretchen called back into the room from the doorway.

"In that sense? Who can tell?" Ernestine thought sadly.

She looked for a moment irresolutely at the little spider-legged table that served as dining- and writing-table. She would so like to write to Walter. It was now over a week since she had heard from him, and her scientific correspondence with this young friend was her sole self-indulgence,--the only tie that still connected her with her former pursuits. In all his letters he told her of his progress, asked her opinion upon many points, and glowed with enthusiasm for her genius. She could scarcely withstand the temptation to devote the time while it was yet light to writing. Her heart was still full of the wonderful dreams of the morning.

But she looked down at the skirt upon which she was working, and which she really stood in need of, and thought, "No, I was thoughtless this morning, and dreamed away the time, instead of cooking. I will be conscientious this afternoon, and work."

She seated herself, sighing heavily, at the window, and sewed on diligently. "Practice makes perfect," she had said in the essay that was to procure her admission to the lecture-room of the University. She never dreamed then how she was one day to prove the truth of the proverb. If she only had that essay now, she thought! She had forgotten to ask Dr. Möllner for it, and he had it still. What had he done with it? Should she reclaim it? No, assuredly not! He had written to her but once since her flight from Hochstetten, and had afterwards sent her the proceeds of the sale of her furniture, without one friendly word,--only transacting her business for her as formally as for a stranger. And what a letter that was after her flight! She took it out to read it once more, although she had read it already again and again:

"I understand you, Ernestine. I expected this. It would have been unjust to our future to put force upon your feelings. God will one day guide me out of this dilemma. Until then, live in peace, and gratify a pride that I am now convinced nothing can break. Perhaps in time it may consume itself, and perhaps love may overcome it. I will endure, as I have learned to do since I first knew you. There is a strength in you such as I never believed a woman could possess, and with which I know not how to contend. I do not grudge you the triumph that this confession affords you. It is a poor delight in comparison with that which love would yield you, if you did not scorn it. Ah, Ernestine, could I have snatched you from your poverty to my heart and home, my joy would have been beyond that of mortals. A grateful smile from you would have been more than worlds to me. But you do not choose, since you would sacrifice nothing for me, to accept any sacrifice from me. You choose to be your husband's equal in all respects,--to owe nothing to any human being. I forgive you your pride in this respect, for it presupposes an exaggerated self-depreciation. As you think so lightly of yourself,--as you do not dream of your wealth of charms, of the power that you possess to bless and enrich,--you cannot believe that you can bestow a treasure to the worth of which the wealth of the world is nothing. Perhaps this is partly my fault. In my desire to deal truthfully with you, I have neglected to impress this fact upon you. But, Ernestine, it seems to me a true woman does not ask, 'How much do I receive, and what can I give in return?' She accepts in love what is offered in love, and is glad to owe everything to him to whom she is everything. She gives him all that she can, and never stints him of the dearest delight that he can have,--that of labouring and toiling for one so dear to him. She willingly wears the fetters of dependence, regarding them only as ties binding her more closely to the loved one. You cannot feel so, Ernestine. It would be unjust to require it of you, and you were wrong if you feared I should seek to detain you by force. I only used force to preserve you from a menacing peril. Now you are safe. The world into which you are going will be only a school for you, and you have need of this school. Therefore, choose your own path, and prove the independence, your right to which you insist upon asserting. I would not exact what would be a blessing only as a free gift. There was no need of your leaving us as you did, without even a farewell to my mother, who had grown so fond of you and nursed you so tenderly. It pained her that you should do so.

"I will not speak of what I suffered upon finding you gone upon my return from town, leaving only those few lines of farewell. You are bent upon maintaining the dignity of your sex, and, in such an important undertaking, it is scarcely worth while to consider the wrecked happiness of one human life.