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CHAPTER II.
AN ISLAND PLOUGHED UP

Humility, respect, and helpful kindness were manifest in Sonnenkamp's whole demeanor, as he extended his hand to the Professorin on her getting out of the carriage; as he conducted her to the steamboat; as he looked out for a seat protected from the draught and giving an uninterrupted prospect; as he supplied all her wants and asked if there was any thing he could do for her.

The Professorin was startled when she perceived that she had forgotten a book which she had laid upon the table, intending to take it with her, but had left it there. She evaded Sonnenkamp's question what was the name of the book, for she could well imagine, that the writings of the man she held in such high veneration would not be agreeable to Sonnenkamp. She said in a joking way that she had lived so long in the society of the learned world, that even making a trip on the Rhine, in a clear, bright sunshine, she thought she must have a book with her. She must give herself up wholly to the scenery and to her own thoughts.

Sonnenkamp seated himself near her, and said in a tone of genuine emotion, that he could not but congratulate his children, nay, almost envy them, that they were to live in the society of a woman of such a youthful spirit.

The more he talked, the tenderer he became, and his eyes glistened as if moistened with tears. He frequently said that he could not speak of his youthful years, which were arid and desolate, with no gentle hand of woman to soothe him with caresses. The strong man was deeply moved, as he spoke of his childhood in words that partly veiled and partly revealed his meaning. At last he came to the main point, composing himself by a violent effort. The Professorin felt that she must first inquire into the reason why Manna had became so alienated from him. Bending down his head, he proceeded to say: —

"They may have told her something that I disdained to contradict. Were you, honored lady, to know what it was, you would without hesitation pronounce it to be a falsehood devised by the most malignant hostility."

The Professorin desired to know what was said, but he replied that if he should repeat it, he should run mad here on board the boat. His features, that had been composed and placid, were suddenly distorted in a fearful manner.

The Professorin now dwelt upon the visit that she was going to make to the Superior, the friend of her youth, and begged Herr Sonnenkamp to avoid all direct endeavor to influence his daughter in favor of herself.

"Children," she said, "must make their own friends, and they cannot receive them ready made from others. One must be careful not to intrude one's self upon them, and to wait quietly and patiently, until they come of their own accord."

Sonnenkamp considered this so judicious, that he promised not to go with her, in the first instance, to the island, but to remain at the inn on this side of the river until the Professorin should send for him.

"You are as good as you are wise," he said praisingly, for he detected as he thought in the lady's unobtrusiveness a politic motive; and he was pleased in the notion of circumventing all cunning with a deeper cunning still.

While Sonnenkamp and the Mother were sailing down the Rhine, a strange circumstance occurred on the convent-island From one end of the year to the other, no horse was to be seen upon the island, except when the ground was ploughed. The pupils in amazement pointed out to each other a plough, which a horse was drawing up and down the extreme point of the island. A noble-looking farmer in a blue blouse, and with a gray hat drawn down over his eyes, was guiding the plough. The children stood at a distance watching the plough, as if it were some novel wonder, and looked at Manna for permission to go nearer in order to observe it. She nodded permission, and they walked along the gravelled walk by the side of the field. Then the ploughman, taking off his hat, made a salutation; Manna remained standing with a fixed look as if she were under a spell. Is that not Herr von Pranken? He continued his ploughing and said nothing. As he turned the plough, to come back, he looked towards her and smiled; it was he.

"He's a splendid-looking ploughman," said one of the girls.

"And he seems so genteel," exclaimed another.

"And he has a seal ring on his finger," cried a third. "Who knows that this is not a knight in disguise!"

Manna called to the children to return with her. She went into her cell, from which the field could be overlooked, but she kept away from the window. She felt flattered that Pranken should subject himself to the most humble condition, in order to be near her, and she felt grateful to him for being so modest and considerate as not to speak to her. She debated with herself whether she should not mention it to the Superior, but she came to the conclusion that she had no right to betray Herr von Pranken's secret; besides, so far from there being any harm in it, it was the noblest tribute of respect.

Going to the window, she saw that he kept steadily at his work, and he had never seemed to her so pure and noble, so lovable as now, engaged in this rustic labor.

On the window-sill was a rose-bush with a late rose in full bloom. Looking up she caught sight of it, and took hold of the stem, thinking she would pluck and throw it to him as a sign of recognition; but just then, a lay-sister came in and informed her that a visitor had come who asked to see Manna. The rose remained on its stem.

Manna turned round and seemed perplexed. Pranken is still there ploughing. Could he be the one who was announced? or has the Countess Bella arrived? With wavering step she descended to the reception-room. The Superior introduced to her a good-looking, portly lady, saying: —

"This is my friend, Professorin Dournay, the mother of your brother's teacher."

CHAPTER III.
"OUT OF THE WORLD, AND OUT IN THE WORLD."

The first feeling was surprise, the second, quiet confidence, as the eyes of the Professorin and Manna met; each found the other different from the preconceived image.

Manna remembered Eric's tall figure, and his resemblance to the picture of St. Anthony, and before her stood a short, fair, gray-haired woman. Frau Dournay had pictured to herself Roland's handsome sister as like him, and now she saw a slender, delicate creature, who, at first sight, gave no impression of beauty. A mole on her left cheek, and one on the right side of her upper lip, were quite conspicuous; her complexion was rather dark, and her wonderful brown eyes glowed with deep and quiet warmth upon every one who looked into them.

Manna bowed ceremoniously to the Professorin, who rose and held out her hand with maternal kindness, saying that she was very glad to become acquainted with the daughter of her host, while paying a visit to her friend, the Superior; and she added, with special emphasis, that she had been so fortunate as to become quite intimate with Manna's mother.

"Is my mother well?" asked Manna, with a sweet tone of warmth in her low and quiet voice. The Professorin told her of her mother's health, and added that the doctor said he had never known her so constantly cheerful as now.

"Now, I have a request to make," she continued in an animated tone; "since I have had the good fortune to be your parents' guest, I have insisted that the daily course of your brother's studies should not be in the least interfered with, and now let me beg you, my dear young lady, to go on with your usual occupations. I shall have the pleasure of dining with you, and after dinner, I shall be very glad if you will spare me a quarter of an hour."

"If you have any private message for Manna," said the Superior, "I will leave you together."

"I have not any private message."

Manna gave the Professorin her hand, and left the room. She did not know what to make of it all; why had she been summoned when there was so little to be said to her? It offended her a little to be so pushed about by a stranger – for the lady was a stranger. But as she walked through the long passage, she still saw before her the sincere and gentle countenance of the stranger, smiling at her as if saying, You are a strange child!

Manna returned thoughtfully to her cell; she looked out of the window and saw Pranken just entering a boat with his horse, and he was soon on the opposite shore.

"Ah, Herr von Pranken!" cried a loud voice, and the echo repeated the sound.

What voice was that?

Pranken hurried up the bank and vanished behind the willows.

Manna longed for the time when the world would be shut out from her, and no more unrest could come over her, for now she was deeply disturbed. There was Pranken; here, the tutor's mother – what did it all mean? She took her book of devotions, but could not succeed in drawing her thoughts from the subjects which occupied them.

In the mean time, the Professorin was listening to the Superior's account of Manna's strange nature, which seemed really to hold two natures within it, one, humble and submissive, almost without a will of its own; the other, struggling, defiant, and self-willed. She had a true, earnest character, too serious, perhaps, for a girl of seventeen; she was often unable to, hold her feelings under control, but who could always do that at her age? A weight lay on her spirits which was uncontrollable; it plainly had its source in the child's keen sense of the discord between her parents and its influence upon herself. The Superior asked Frau Dournay to tell her more of the characteristic peculiarities of the parents, but she evaded the subject.

The appearance, as well as the bearing, of the two ladies offered a sharp contrast. The Professorin's figure was full, and in her face there was a constant expression of wide-awake animation; her hands were round and plump; the Superior was tall and thin, her expression severe and earnest, as if just a moment before she had given some positive order, or was on the point of giving one; her hands were long and perfectly shaped. Both women had experienced hard trials: the Professorin had won a gentle, smiling content; the Superior, a complete preparation to meet all events with firm and stoical endurance.

The first greeting between these early friends, after nearly thirty years of separation, had been a strange one, the Superior not hearing, or seeming not to hear, that Frau Dournay addressed her just as she had in the old days.

"I did not think I should ever see you again in this world," she had said directly, and when the Professorin tried to recall reminiscences of their youth, she had replied that she knew the past no longer; she had destroyed all its mementoes, and recognized only a future, the sole object that ought to occupy our thoughts.

The Superior noticed that this distant manner of speaking startled her old friend, and she said, with the same composure, that she made no distinction among the relations and acquaintances of her early life; no one was nearer to her or farther from her, and that any one who could not attain this state ought not to devote herself to a spiritual life.

The Professorin felt as if she had been turned off and shown out of the house, but she was calm enough to say: —

"Yes, you always had a strength of mind which used to frighten me, but now I admire it."

The Superior smiled; then, as if angry at having been betrayed into any self-satisfaction by this civil speech, she said, —

"Dear Clara, I beg you not to tempt me into vanity. I stand at my post, and have a strict watch to keep, until the Lord of Hosts shall call me to himself. Formerly, I must confess, I did not realize that you and I lived in different worlds; in mine, it is one's duty not to rely on one's own strength."

With all this self-denial, it seemed to the Professorin that the Superior spoke of the power and the greatness of the sphere in which she moved, with that pride, or at least with that lofty self-confidence, shown by all who belong to a great and powerful community. To the Superior, on the other hand, she seemed like an isolated, detached atom, floating it knew not whither.

They soon found, however, a point on which they could sympathize, in speaking of the difficult task of educating the young.

The Superior was rich in experience, while the Professorin depended almost entirely on the precepts and opinions of her departed husband; and now that she took the attitude of a scholar, and listened gratefully, gentler thoughts rose within the Superior, who had felt that she had been somewhat harsh towards the excellent woman; and in this mood, she imparted some things that she really meant to hold back. She told Frau Dournay that, at first, Manna's position in the convent had been a very hard one, for a strange thing had happened. Her entrance into the convent seemed to bring about a revolution. Two Americans from the best families were then there, and they were not willing to sit at the same table with the Creole, for such Manna seemed; they told their fellow-pupils that, in their native country, such half-bloods always travelled in separate cars on the railroads, and, even in church, had places set apart for them. And as most of the children were from noble German families, they united in a protest against Manna's presence, without her knowing anything of it herself. While she slept, three of the pupils had examined her nails, in the presence of a nun, and as no black spots were found on them, it was proved that both parents were of pure blood. Manna was tolerated, and soon succeeded in winning the blue ribbon by her quick mind and great industry.

The Professorin held back the words which rose to her lips, for she was resolved to keep quiet and arouse no discussion; but her lips trembled as she longed to tell the Superior that it was her duty to have shown the children, by precept and example, that there can be no distinction of blood before God, and that such exclusiveness was impious and barbarous.

Frau Dournay had to exercise still more self-control when the Superior asked her to be kind enough to fold her hands when grace was said at dinner. The color flushed into her face, as she listened, and answered, —

"My husband is gone to his eternal home, and I know that when he stands before the judgment-seat the Holy Spirit will say to him: Thou hast lived according to the purest convictions of thy soul; thou hast honestly examined thyself, and hast attempted and done only what thou couldst do in all sincerity. At our table, we had no formal prayer, but before we sat down to eat and drink, each of us spent a minute in silent self-communion, and in the thought of what it really is to renew our existence from the Fountain of life; and our meal was consecrated by pure and good thoughts."

"Well, well, I did not mean to wound you," said the Superior. "I heard with sympathy that you had lost your husband, for whose sake you sacrificed yourself so nobly and gladly."

"I was happy with my husband," replied the Professorin; "our love grew stronger every day. But love for a lover or a husband is always dwelt on; there is another kind of love, which, though very different, is wonderfully fresh and noble, and I think I know it. Forgive me for saying it, but I mean that it seems as if love only rightly begins when one has a high-minded, excellent son."

"I am glad that you are so happy; but tell me sincerely whether you have not found that of ten married women, nine, at least, are unhappy."

The Professorin was silent, and the Superior continued, —

"Your silence is assent, and now look at the great difference; among a hundred nuns you find scarcely one unhappy one."

Frau Dournay was still silent; she did not wish to debate this assertion: she was a guest, and would not try to convert or correct; but the Superior seemed to try to draw her out as she asked, —

"Do you know a more unhappy position than that of a girl who knows herself, and whom others know, to be the heiress of millions? Is she to believe in the love of frail human creatures? Is she to believe that she is wooed for her own sake? There is nothing for her, but to give herself and her wealth into the hands of the Eternal. This I say to you – I know not what commission you have, and even if you have none, you can report it. We do not try to gain Manna and her future wealth, we insist that she shall go back into the world, and return to us only on her own free decision. There is neither compulsion nor intimidation on our part, but it is our duty to protect those who prefer the imperishable to the perishable, wherever they may be. Now you know all, and we will say no more on the subject."

The Superior left her, and Frau Dournay walked out alone upon the island. It seemed to her that it would be a bold act, one of unjustifiable rashness indeed, to take this child by force, even the force of affection, from this sphere where she lived at peace and wished to end her life. She stood on the shore, and almost without knowing why, allowed herself to be taken across to the main-land, where she was not a little astonished to find Herr Sonnenkamp and Herr von Pranken, taking wine together, under the shady lindens of the inn.

Pranken was dressed so strangely that she thought she was mistaken, and she was about to turn back; but she heard her name called, and approached the two men in the garden.

Sonnenkamp was in high spirits, declaring himself very fortunate to have met his friend Pranken here; he considered it a fine thing that the Baron had changed himself into a husbandman, hinting that he himself had once been something of the kind; then he said, —

"We have no secrets from our friend, will Manna go home with us, Frau Professorin?"

The Professorin replied that not a word had been said on the subject, and that it seemed hardly to be wished; it would be well to let Manna complete her time at the convent, and certainly to refrain from all compulsion.

Pranken agreed very emphatically, but Sonnenkamp was much put out; it seemed to him dreadful that his daughter should be living here in the midst of a crowd of other girls, when a free and happy life was waiting for her.

The noon-day bell rang from the Convent, and Frau Dournay said she must go back. Sonnenkamp accompanied her to the shore, and there said in a low voice: —

"Do not trouble yourself about Pranken. We will leave my daughter free in every respect."

The Professorin returned to the island; the children were already at table when she entered the dining-room; she stood with folded hands behind her chair for a few moments before seating herself. When dinner was over, and thanks had been returned, the Superior said to Manna, —

"Now go with the friend of your family."

Frau Dournay and Manna walked towards the shady grove on the upper end of the island; and Heimchen, who was quite confiding towards the Professorin, went with them; but she was quite willing to sit down with a book, under a tree, and wait till they came back for her.

"But you must not take Manna away with you," cried the child from her low seat; they both started, for the child had given utterance, from an instinctive feeling, to the fear of one and the hope of the other.

CHAPTER IV.
THE IRON MUST ENTER THINE OWN SOUL

For a long time neither uttered a word; at last the Professorin said, —

"You seem to be called to a higher life, from having been obliged in early youth to suffer so hard an experience, and to feel deeply the discord among men."

"I? How?" asked Manna. "What do you know?" She trembled.

"I know," answered the Professorin, "that you have suffered under that cruel burden which weighs upon your great and noble father-land."

"My father-land? I? Speak more plainly."

"It pains me that I tear open a wound which is scarred over, but this scar is a mark of honor for you, and it is not your fault, my child, that you are set in the midst of this life-struggle."

"I?"

"Yes."

"How? Tell me all; what do you know?"

"I mean that it should elevate you to have been obliged to bear humiliation and bitterness in your own person; it gives you a loftier consecration."

"Tell me plainly what you mean."

With an altered tone, like the hiss of a serpent. Manna spoke sharply and angrily; her gentle eyes sparkled restlessly.

"Heaven knows," said the Professorin, "I would not wound you; no, protecting and blessing you, would I lay my hand upon you."

She tried to place her hand on Manna's head, but the girl shrank back and cried: —

"Tell me distinctly, who knows it? What do you know? Pray speak."

"I know nothing, except that you had to suffer severely on your entrance into the convent; that two American girls took you for a half-blood, and would not associate with you."

"Yes, yes, that's it! Now I know why they examined my nails, and Anna Sotway stood by, Oh, it's well! it's well! I thank thee, holy God, that thou hast suffered me to experience this. In myself, in my own person, I was to feel the suffering that a slave feels in being examined! Why did they not open my veins? I thank thee, O God! But why dost thou suffer them to worship thee, and then to scorn thee in thy creatures? Then it was not because I tried to be reverent and obedient, no, but because I was of pure blood, that I was tolerated here! Pah!"

It was a different being who spoke these words, and cried aloud in the wood: —

"Ye trees, why does each of you grow after its kind, and blossom and grow green and flourish, warmed by the same sun, and with the birds singing in your branches? Alas! alas! where am I?"

"In the right path," answered the Professorin. Manna gazed at her as if she were a spirit, and she continued: —

"A pure spirit is speaking again through you, my child; you have spoken truth. When Lessing said, 'I would not have all trees covered with the same bark,' he had no presentiment that his spirit would manifest itself anew here in the cloister, in a child just waking to life. His pure and holy spirit is between us now, my child, and I think Lessing would say: Forgive them; they will learn that God alone is constant, while the races of men are only the ever-varying, ever-returning figures of a dream."

Manna appeared hardly to have heard her, for now she grasped her arm asking: —

"Did you not tell me, that you were specially in the confidence of my mother?"

"Yes."

"And has she told you the secret too?"

"I do not understand you."

"Speak openly with me. I know all."

"Your mother has told me no secret."

Manna seized the cross on her breast convulsively, and gazed silently before her for a long time.

With heart-felt earnestness, the Professorin expressed her deep regret at having moved her so greatly, and her desire not to force herself upon her, but to be her true friend.

Manna made no answer. At last she turned and kissed the lips of her startled companion.

"I kiss the lips which have spoken the dreadful words, and all the rest. Yes, I must experience it, I, myself. I believe that I am now first consecrated as the sacrifice."

The Mother stood helpless before this enigmatical being, and Manna at last promised to be quite calm. She seated herself on a bench which stood under a fir-tree, leaned back against the tree, and gazed up at the sky.

"Why," she said to herself, "does there now come no voice to us from the air? Ah, I would so gladly follow it forth over mountain and valley, to darkness and death."

Manna wept; the Professorin reminded her of her promise to be quite calm, but the girl declared she could not, it grieved her so to be torn from this place, which she must leave, since she could not be true in it. She would be living falsely, because people had not been true to her.

Now, for the first time, the Professorin understood that Manna had known nothing of what had passed, and she shuddered at what she had done. She mourned over having so disturbed Manna's young soul, saying that she could never forgive herself. And now Manna turned, and tried to calm and console her unhappy companion.

"Believe me, pray believe me," she cried, holding up her clasped hands, "only the truth can make us free, and that is the dreadful thing, that the park, and the house, and all the splendor are lies – No, that I did not mean – but one thing I beg, do not repent, when you have left me, that you told me what you did; it does not hurt me, it helps me. Ah, I beg – it helps me. I had to know it, and it is well."

The Professorin composed herself, and as she praised Manna's truthful impulses, the girl shook her head, saying: —

"I will not be praised, I do not deserve it; I do not deserve the whole truth, for I am hiding something myself."

The Professorin felt what a heavy weight she had brought upon the child, and she explained to her how the Superior had cured her troubles, like a physician who does not tell his patient all. Manna gazed wonderingly at her, as she said: —

"I am sorry that I too have not been quite sincere with you."

"You too?"

"Yes, I have not told you that your father came here with me; that he is waiting for my return on the other shore, and hoping that you will go home with us."

Manna rose and sat down again, hastily. "The father hides from his child and sends strangers!" she murmured to herself. "Come with me to the Superior," she suddenly exclaimed.

She seized the Professorin's hand, and drew her towards the convent. Heimchen came towards them, crying: —

"No, Manna, you must not go away and leave me here alone."

"Come with us," answered Manna, taking the child by the hand.

She went to the Superior and asked permission to go with Frau Dournay to her father, who was waiting for her on the main-land.

"Send for him to come here."

"No, I would rather go to him."

Permission was granted. It was difficult for Manna to free herself from Heimchen, who could be pacified only by Manna's solemn promise to return.

Manna sat gazing into the water while they were in the boat. With Frau Dournay, she entered the garden of the inn, where they found Sonnenkamp and Pranken sitting in the shade of the arbor.

"You are going home with us?" cried Sonnenkamp to his daughter.

She received his embrace, but did not return it. Pranken greeted Manna joyfully, and as she extended her hand to him, said smiling: —

"I have hardened my hand, but my heart is still soft, perhaps too soft."

Manna cast down her eyes. There was some merry jesting about the manner in which Pranken had settled himself here in the neighborhood. He described pleasantly how his new life struck him; there was a fresh vigor in his bearing, and a tone of warm feeling in all his words. He saw with satisfaction what impression his deportment made upon Manna, who said, at last, that she believed she might speak openly before this gentleman and lady, who were not really strangers though not members of her own family. She was not yet quite resolved, but she felt a real longing to leave the convent very soon, or still better, not to return to it again, letting her father or the Professorin go over to say good-bye for her.

"May a friend say a word about it?" asked Pranken, as Sonnenkamp loudly expressed his joy.

Manna begged him to speak, and he explained that, as a friend, he would urge Manna to act properly and worthily; whatever might have passed, it was Manna's duty not to break too abruptly the close and holy ties which had united her with the convent, and, above all, with the Superior; hardness and ingratitude towards others left a weight and bitterness in the soul. He must believe, that, as Manna had entered the convent from her own wish and a pure resolve, she would leave it in all kindness and friendly feeling. It seemed to him the right course that Manna should return for a short time, to take leave of her companions and the holy sisterhood quietly and considerately. He repeated, that though he desired nothing more earnestly than to have Manna return to the outer world as soon as possible, and as fully as possible, still he considered it the duty of a friend to save from remorse and inward disquiet one to whom he stood in any near relation. There was more than excellence, there was a real nobility, in Pranken's manner as he said all this, and various were the looks and thoughts of the three who were watching him.

Sonnenkamp was angry, and yet he said to himself: "After all, aristocratic blood knows what's the proper thing."

The Professorin believed that Pranken meant to win Manna anew by these noble sentiments; Manna herself was quite subdued.

"You are right," she exclaimed, as she extended her hand and held Pranken's firmly. "You show me what is right. I thank you, and will follow your advice."

Sonnenkamp was beside himself as he saw his dearest wish again disappointed; but still greater was his astonishment, when the Professorin expressed her acquiescence.

After Manna had begged Pranken to avoid any meeting with her until she returned home, they all walked down to the shore, and the two ladies returned to the island.

Heimchen, who had wept constantly, had already been put to bed, and was still mourning that Manna had gone. Manna went to her and found her crying, and her pillow wet with tears; she dried her eyes and talked to her till she went to sleep; and while pacifying her, and promising all sorts of good things, she became calmer herself.