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

by Wilhelmine von Hillern

On the evening of the same day, Leuthold sat before his writing-table at the open windows. The cool night air made the flame of the lamp flicker behind its green shade. From the adjoining room came the low sound of the plaintive air with which the nursemaid was soothing little Gretchen to sleep. A cricket upon the window-sill chirped continually, and a singed moth would now and then fall upon the white, unwritten sheet that lay on the table before Leuthold. It was a calm, mild, autumn night,--a night when darkness hides the yellow leaves and one can dream that it is still summer. And yet the solitary man sat there gazing into vacancy, with as little sympathy with nature as though he had been banished utterly from her communion. In the corner of the window-frame there fluttered a large cobweb, and its proprietor was lying in wait for the insects that were attracted by the lamp. But the man's brain was weaving still finer webs in the stillness of night, and in the midst of them lurked the ugly spider of greed of gold, also lying in wait for prey. Ernestine must be ensnared; but she had protectors who were upon the watch. No human being must suspect that her guardian was her worst enemy.

The will had been opened, and two clauses in it had given Leuthold renewed life and hope. He was Ernestine's guardian,--and her heir in case of her dying unmarried. By the time that his light began to fade, he had laid all his plans, and arose from his seat with the feeling of satisfaction experienced by an author who has just thought out successfully the plot of a new work. Ernestine was no more to him than a character in a novel is to its author,--a character which is indispensable to the plot, and which the author treats with care as a necessary evil, but never with affection. Thus he had planned with great precision the child's future; and, unless he utterly failed in his designs, the figure that now hovered before his imagination would greatly conduce to the successful conclusion of the romance for his child and himself.

The lamp died down. Leuthold slipped out upon tiptoe, and, undressing in the next room in the dark, lay down in the bed beside which stood Gretchen's crib. Soon after the child awoke, and stretched out her hands towards her father. He drew her towards him, and laid her head upon his breast, that was chilled as though from the influence of his own icy heart. She nestled up to him, and put her little arms around his neck. He listened to her quiet breathing as she fell calmly asleep again, and gradually his own heart grew warm beside hers, beating there so peacefully. He scarcely ventured to breathe himself, for fear of wakening her. It was a happy moment for him. Upon the breath of the slumbering child an ineffable delight was wafted into his soul. He held in his arms the only being whom he loved and who really loved him,--his child, his own flesh and blood! Suddenly there was a loud knocking at his door, and Rieka's shrill voice cried, "Herr Doctor! Herr Doctor! pray get up quickly and come to Ernestine!"

Leuthold started up and gently laid the child in her crib again. Every nerve in his body vibrated, his heart beat wildly, and his hands trembled as he dressed himself hurriedly. Something extraordinary must have occurred: was Ernestine worse?--perhaps dying? Was fate to atone so soon for Hartwich's injustice? Were his hopes to be--the thought made him giddy, breathless, and, almost tottering, he reached the door where Rieka was waiting to light him down the stairs.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"Oh, Herr Doctor, it is our fault," Rieka began: "Theresa and I were sitting by Ernestine's bedside and talking; we thought she was sound asleep, we were talking about master who is dead; and we told about the dairy-maid's refusing to sleep in the barn-loft any more, because she says he walks. And we spoke of his death, how he called for his child, and declared that he could not find rest in his grave if Ernestine did not forgive him. And we said we were sure that he would appear to her some day, for when any one dies with such a burden on his soul, there is no rest for him until he has the forgiveness that he craves. Then Ernestine suddenly began to cry, and we saw that she had heard everything. We tried to quiet her, but she grew worse and worse, and nothing would content her but that she must be taken this very night to the church-yard, to her father's grave, that she might forgive him. We can do nothing with her; she insists upon it; she is almost in convulsions with crying and obstinacy!"

They entered Ernestine's room, where Theresa, the other maid, was trying to keep the struggling, desperate child in bed. Leuthold went softly up to her, and laid his cool, delicate hand upon her burning forehead. His touch soothed her; she became quiet, and looked up at her uncle with a piteous entreaty in her large eyes.

"Leave me alone with her," he said to the servants, who obeyed with a mutter of discontent. He then trimmed the night-lamp so that it burned brightly, and seated himself beside Ernestine's couch. "My child," he began, in his low, melodious voice, "you are quite clever enough to understand what I am going to say to you, but you must promise me that you will never repeat it to any human being. Do you promise?"

"Oh, I will promise, uncle," sobbed Ernestine, "if you will only help me to let my poor father know that I forgive him,--oh, with all my heart!--and that my head is well again, and does not hurt me any more! Oh, my poor, poor father,--your little Ernestine wants so to tell you that she is not angry with you; but she cannot!"

"You are a good child, Ernestine, but you are only a child!" Leuthold continued, while the same strange smile that had so troubled Ernestine in the morning again played around his mouth. She looked up in surprise. Was what she had said so foolish again?