The House of Heine Brothers

by Anthony Trollope

　　The house of Heine Brothers, in Munich, was of good repute at thetime of which I am about to tell,--a time not long ago; and is sostill, I trust. It was of good repute in its own way, seeing thatno man doubted the word or solvency of Heine Brothers; but they didnot possess, as bankers, what would in England be considered a largeor profitable business. The operations of English bankers arebewildering in their magnitude. Legions of clerks are employed.The senior book-keepers, though only salaried servants, arethemselves great men; while the real partners are inscrutable,mysterious, opulent beyond measure, and altogether unknown to theircustomers. Take any firm at random,--Brown, Jones, and Cox, let ussay,--the probability is that Jones has been dead these fifty years,that Brown is a Cabinet Minister, and that Cox is master of a packof hounds in Leicestershire. But it was by no means so with thehouse of Heine Brothers, of Munich. There they were, the twoelderly men, daily to be seen at their dingy office in the SchrannenPlatz; and if any business was to be transacted requiring theinterchange of more than a word or two, it was the younger brotherwith whom the customer was, as a matter of course, brought intocontact. There were three clerks in the establishment; an old man,namely, who sat with the elder brother and had no personal dealingswith the public; a young Englishman, of whom we shall anon hearmore; and a boy who ran messages, put the wood on to the stoves, andswept out the bank. Truly he house of Heine Brothers was of nogreat importance; but nevertheless it was of good repute.The office, I have said, was in the Schrannen Platz, or old Market-place. Munich, as every one knows, is chiefly to be noted as a newtown,--so new that many of the streets and most of the palaces lookas though they had been sent home last night from the builders, andhad only just been taken out of their bandboxes It is angular,methodical, unfinished, and palatial. But there is an old town;and, though the old town be not of surpassing interest, it is asdingy, crooked, intricate, and dark as other old towns in Germany.Here, in the old Market-place, up one long broad staircase, weresituated the two rooms in which was held the bank of Heine Brothers.Of the elder member of the firm we shall have something to saybefore this story be completed. He was an old bachelor, and waspossessed of a bachelor's dwelling somewhere out in the suburbs ofthe city. The junior brother was a married man, with a wife sometwenty years younger than himself, with two daughters, the elder ofwhom was now one-and-twenty, and one son. His name was ErnestHeine, whereas the senior brother was known as Uncle Hatto. ErnestHeine and his wife inhabited a portion of one of those new palatialresidences at the further end of the Ludwigs Strasse; but notbecause they thus lived must it be considered that they werepalatial people. By no means let it be so thought, as such an ideawould altogether militate against whatever truth of characterpainting there may be in this tale. They were not palatial people,but the very reverse, living in homely guise, pursuing homelyduties, and satisfied with homely pleasures. Up two pairs ofstairs, however, in that street of palaces, they lived, having therea commodious suite of large rooms, furnished, after the manner ofthe Germans, somewhat gaudily as regarded their best salon, and withsomewhat meagre comfort as regarded their other rooms. But, whetherin respect of that which was meagre, or whether in respect of thatwhich was gaudy, they were as well off as their neighbours; andthis, as I take it, is the point of excellence which is desirable.Ernest Heine was at this time over sixty; his wife was past forty;and his eldest daughter, as I have said, was twenty-one years ofage. His second child, also a girl, was six years younger; andtheir third child, a boy, had not been born till another similarinterval had elapsed. He was named Hatto after his uncle, and thetwo girls had been christened Isa and Agnes. Such, in number andmode of life, was the family of the Heines.We English folk are apt to imagine that we are nearer akin toGermans than to our other continental neighbours. This may be so inblood, but, nevertheless, the difference in manners is so striking,that it could hardly be enhanced. An Englishman moving himself offto a city in the middle of Central America will find the customs towhich he must adapt himself less strange to him there, than he wouldin many a German town. But in no degree of life is the differencemore remarkable than among unmarried but marriageable young women.It is not my purpose at the present moment to attribute asuperiority in this matter to either nationality. Each has its owncharm, its own excellence, its own Heaven-given grace, whereby menare led up to purer thoughts and sweet desires; and each maypossibly have its own defect. I will not here describe theexcellence or defect of either; but will, if it be in my power, saya word as to this difference. The German girl of one-and-twenty,--our Isa's age,--is more sedate, more womanly, more meditative thanher English sister. The world's work is more in her thoughts, andthe world's amusements less so. She probably knows less of thosethings which women learn than the English girl, but that which shedoes know is nearer to her hand for use. She is not so muchaccustomed to society, but nevertheless she is more mistress of herown manner. She is not taught to think so much of those thingswhich flurry and disturb the mind, and therefore she is seldomflurried and disturbed. To both of them, love,--the idea of love,--must be the thought of all the most absorbing; for is it not fatedfor them that the joys and sorrows of their future life must dependupon it? But the idea of the German girl is the more realistic, andthe less romantic. Poetry and fiction she may have read, though ofthe latter sparingly; but they will not have imbued her with thathope for some transcendental paradise of affection which so oftenfills and exalts the hearts of our daughters here at home. She ismoderate in her aspirations, requiring less excitement than anEnglish girl; and never forgetting the solid necessities of life,--as they are so often forgotten here in England. In associating withyoung men, an English girl will always remember that in each one sheso meets she may find an admirer whom she may possibly love, or anadmirer whom she may probably be called on to repel. She is everconscious of the fact of this position; and a romance is thusengendered which, if it may at times be dangerous, is at any ratealways charming. But the German girl, in her simplicity, has nosuch consciousness. As you and I, my reader, might probably becomedear friends were we to meet and know each other, so may the Germangirl learn to love the fair-haired youth with whom chance has for atime associated her; but to her mind there occurs no suggestivereason why it should be so,--no probability that the youth mayregard her in such light, because that chance has come to pass. Shecan therefore give him her hand without trepidation, and talk withhim for half an hour, when called on to do so, as calmly as shemight do with his sister.Such a one was Isa Heine at the time of which I am writing. WeEnglish, in our passion for daily excitement, might call herphlegmatic, but we should call her so unjustly. Life to her was aserious matter, of which the daily duties and daily wants weresufficient to occupy her thoughts. She was her mother's companion,the instructress of both her brother and her sister, and the charmof her father's vacant hours. With such calls upon her time, and somany realities around her, her imagination did not teach her to lookfor joys beyond those of her present life and home. When love andmarriage should come to her, as come they probably might, she wouldendeavour to attune herself to a new happiness and a new sphere ofduties. In the meantime she was contented to keep her mother'saccounts, and look after her brother and sister up two pair ofstairs in the Ludwigs Strasse. But change would certainly come, wemay prophesy; for Isa Heine was a beautiful girl, tall and graceful,comely to the eye, and fit in every way to be loved and cherished asthe partner of a man's home.I have said that an English clerk made a part of that smallestablishment in the dingy banking-office in the Schrannen Platz,and I must say a word or two of Herbert Onslow. In his early careerhe had not been fortunate. His father, with means sufficientlymoderate, and with a family more than sufficiently large, had senthim to a public school at which he had been very idle, and then toone of the universities, at which he had run into debt, and hadtherefore left without a degree. When this occurred, a familycouncil of war had been held among the Onslows, and it was decidedthat Herbert should be sent off to the banking-house of Heines, atMunich, there being a cousinship between the families, and someexisting connections of business.It was, therefore, so settled; and Herbert, willing enough to seethe world,--as he considered he should do by going to Munich,--started for his German home, with injunctions, very tender from hismother, and very solemn from his aggrieved father. But there wasnothing bad at the heart about young Onslow, and if the solemnfather had well considered it, he might perhaps have felt that thosedebts at Cambridge reflected more fault on him than on his son.When Herbert arrived at Munich, his cousins, the Heines,--far-awaycousins though they were,--behaved kindly to him. They establishedhim at first in lodgings, where he was boarded with many others,having heard somewhat of his early youth. But when Madame Heine, atthe end of twelve months, perceived that he was punctual at thebank, and that his allowances, which, though moderate in England,were handsome in Munich, carried him on without debt, she opened hermotherly arms and suggested to his mother and to himself, that heshould live with them. In this way he also was domiciled up twopairs of stairs in the palatial residence in the Ludwigs Strasse.But all this happened long ago. Isa Heine had been only seventeenwhen her cousin had first come to Munich, and had made acquaintancewith him rather as a child than as a woman. And when, as sheripened into womanhood, this young man came more closely among them,it did not strike her that the change would affect her morepowerfully than it would the others. Her uncle and father, sheknew, had approved of Herbert at the bank; and Herbert had shownthat he could be steady; therefore he was to be taken into theirfamily, paying his annual subsidy, instead of being left withstrangers at the boarding-house. All this was very simple to her.She assisted in mending his linen, as she did her father's; shevisited his room daily, as she visited all the others; she tooknotice of his likings and dislikings as touching their tablearrangement,--but by no means such notice as she did of herfather's; and without any flutter, inwardly in her imagination oroutwardly as regarded the world, she made him one of the family. Sothings went on for a year,--nay, so things went on for two yearswith her, after Herbert Onslow had come to the Ludwigs Strasse.But the matter had been regarded in a very different light byHerbert himself. When the proposition had been made to him, hisfirst idea had been that so close a connection with, a girl so verypretty would be delightful. He had blushed as he had given in hisadhesion; but Madame Heine, when she saw the blush, had attributedit to anything but the true cause. When Isa had asked him as to hiswants and wishes, he had blushed again, but she had been as ignorantas her mother. The father had merely stipulated that, as the youngEnglishman paid for his board, he should have the full value of hismoney, so that Isa and Agnes gave up their pretty front room, goinginto one that was inferior, and Hatto was put to sleep in the littlecloset that had been papa's own peculiar property. But nobodycomplained of this, for it was understood that the money was ofservice.For the first year Herbert found that nothing especial happened. Healways fancied that he was in love with Isa, and wrote some poetryabout her. But the poetry was in English, and Isa could not readit, even had he dared to show it to her. During the second year hewent home to England for three months, and by confessing a passionto one of his sisters, really brought himself to feel one. Hereturned to Munich resolved to tell Isa that the possibility of hisremaining there depended upon her acceptance of his heart; but formonths he did not find himself able to put his resolution in force.She was so sedate, so womanly, so attentive as regarded cousinlyfriendship, and so cold as regarded everything else, that he did notknow how to speak to her. With an English girl whom he had metthree times at a ball, he might have been much more able to makeprogress. He was alone with Isa frequently, for neither father,mother, nor Isa herself objected to such communion; but yet thingsso went between them that he could not take her by the hand and tellher that he loved her. And thus the third year of his life inMunich, and the second of his residence in the Ludwigs Strasse, wentby him. So the years went by, and Isa was now past twenty. ToHerbert, in his reveries, it seemed as though life, and the joys oflife, were slipping away from him. But no such feeling disturbedany of the Heines. Life of course, was slipping away; but then isit not the destiny of man that life should slip away? Their wantswere all satisfied, and for them, that, together with their closefamily affection, was happiness enough.At last, however, Herbert so spoke, or so looked, that both Isa andher mother that his heart was touched. He still declared to himselfthat he had made no sign, and that he was an oaf, an ass, a coward,in that he had not done so. But he had made some sign, and the signhad been read. There was no secret,--no necessity for a secret onthe subject between the mother and daughter, but yet it was notspoken of all at once. There was some little increase of cautionbetween them as Herbert's name was mentioned, so that gradually eachknew what the other thought; but for weeks, that was all. Then atlast the mother spoke out."Isa," she said, "I think that Herbert Onslow is becoming attachedto you.""He has never said so, mamma.""No; I am sure he has not. Had he done so, you would have told me.Nevertheless, is it not true?""Well, mamma, I cannot say. It may be so. Such an idea hasoccurred to me, but I have abandoned it as needless. If he hasanything to say he will say it.""And if he were to speak, how should you answer him?""I should take time to think. I do not at all know what means hehas for a separate establishment." Then the subject was droppedbetween them for that time, and Isa, in her communications with hercousin, was somewhat more reserved than she had been."Isa, are you in love with Herbert?" Agnes asked her, as they weretogether in their room one night."In love with him? No; why should I be in love with him?""I think he is in love with you," said Agnes."That is quite another thing," said Isa, laughing. "But if so, hehas not taken me into his confidence. Perhaps he has you.""Oh no. He would not do that, I think. Not but what we are greatfriends, and I love him dearly. Would it not be nice for you andhim to be betrothed?""That depends on many things, my dear.""Oh yes, I know. Perhaps he has not got money enough. But youcould live here, you know, and he has got some money, because he sooften rides on horseback." And then the matter was dropped betweenthe two sisters.Herbert had given English lessons to the two girls, but the lessonshad been found tedious, and had dwindled away. Isa, nevertheless,had kept up her exercises, duly translating German into English, andEnglish into German; and occasionally she had shown them to hercousin. Now, however, she altogether gave over such showing ofthem, but, nevertheless, worked at the task with more energy thanbefore."Isa," he said to her one day,--having with some difficulty foundher alone in the parlour, "Isa, why should not we go on with ourEnglish?""Because it is troublesome,--to you I mean.""Troublesome. Well; yes; it is troublesome. Nothing good is to behad without trouble. But I should like it if you would not mind.""You know how sick you were of it before;--besides, I shall never beable to speak it.""I shall not get sick of it now, Isa.""Oh yes you would;--in two days.""And I want you to speak it. I desire it especially.""Why especially?" asked Isa. And even she, with all hertranquillity of demeanour, could hardly preserve her even tone andquiet look, as she asked the necessary question."I will tell you why," said Herbert; and as he spoke, he got up fromhis seat, and took a step or two over towards her, where she wassitting near the window. Isa, as she saw him, still continued herwork, and strove hard to give to the stitches all that attentionwhich they required. "I will tell you why I would wish you to talkmy language. Because I love you, Isa, and would have you for mywife,--if that be possible."She still continued her work, and the stitches, if not quite asperfect as usual, sufficed for their purpose."That is why I wish it. Now will you consent to learn from meagain?""If I did, Herbert, that consent would include another.""Yes; certainly it would. That is what I intend. And now will youlearn from me again?""That is,--you mean to ask, will I marry you?""Will you love me? Can you learn to love me? Oh, Isa, I havethought of this so long! But you have seemed so cold that I havenot dared to speak. Isa, can you love me?" And he sat himselfclose beside her. Now that the ice was broken, he was quiteprepared to become an ardent lover,--if she would allow of suchardour. But as he sat down she rose."I cannot answer such a question on the sudden," she said. "Give metill to-morrow, Herbert, and then I will make you a reply;"whereupon she left him, and he stood alone in the room, having donethe deed on which he had been meditating for the last two years.About half an hour afterwards he met her on the stairs as he wasgoing to his chamber. "May I speak to your father about this," hesaid, hardly stopping her as he asked the question. "Oh yes;surely," she answered; and then again they parted. To him thislast-accorded permission sounded as though it carried with it moreweight than it in truth possessed. In his own country a referenceto the lady's father is taken as indicating a full consent on thelady's part, should the stern paterfamilias raise no objection. ButIsa had no such meaning. She had told him that she could not giveher answer till the morrow. If, however, he chose to consult herfather on the subject, she had no objection. It would probably benecessary that she should discuss the whole matter in familyconclave, before she could bring herself to give any reply.On that night, before he went to bed, he did speak to her father;and Isa also, before she went to rest, spoke to her mother. It wassingular to him that there should appear to be so little privacy onthe subject; that there should be held to be so little necessity fora secret. Had he made a suggestion that an extra room should beallotted to him at so much per annum, the proposition could not havebeen discussed with simpler ease. At last, after a three days'debate, the matter ended thus,--with by no means a sufficiency ofromance for his taste. Isa had agreed to become his betrothed ifcertain pecuniary conditions should or could be fulfilled. Itappeared now that Herbert's father had promised that some smallmodicum of capital should be forthcoming after a term of years, andthat Heine Brothers had agreed that the Englishman should have aproportionate share in the bank when that promise should be broughtto bear. Let it not be supposed that Herbert would thus become amillionaire. If all went well, the best would be that some threehundred a year would accrue to him from the bank, instead of thequarter of that income which he at present received. But threehundred a year goes a long way at Munich, and Isa's parents werewilling that she should be Herbert's wife if such an income shouldbe forthcoming.But even of this there was much doubt. Application to Herbert'sfather could not be judiciously made for some months. The earliestperiod at which, in accordance with old Hatto Heine's agreement,young Onslow might be admitted to the bank, was still distant byfour years; and the present moment was thought to be inopportune forapplying to him for any act of grace. Let them wait, said papa andmamma Heine,--at any rate till New Year's Day, then ten monthsdistant. Isa quietly said that she would wait till New Year's Day.Herbert fretted, fumed, and declared that he was ill-treated. Butin the end he also agreed to wait. What else could he do?"But we shall see each other daily, and be close to each other," hesaid to Isa, looking tenderly into her eyes. "Yes," she replied,"we shall see each other daily--of course. But, Herbert--"Herbert looked up at her and paused for her to go on."I have promised mamma that there shall be no change between us,--inour manner to each other, I mean. We are not betrothed as yet, youknow, and perhaps we may never be so.""Isa!""It may not be possible, you know. And therefore we will go on asbefore. Of course we shall see each other, and of course we shallbe friends."Herbert Onslow again fretted and again fumed, but he did not havehis way. He had looked forward to the ecstasies of a lover's life,but very few of those ecstasies were awarded to him. He rarelyfound himself alone with Isa, and when he did do so, her coldnessoverawed him. He could dare to scold her and sometimes did do so,but he could not dare to take the slightest liberty. Once, on thatnight when the qualified consent of papa and mamma Heine had firstbeen given, he had been allowed to touch her lips with his own; butsince that day there had been for him no such delight as that. Shewould not even allow her hand to remain in his. When they allpassed their evenings together in the beer-garden, she wouldstudiously manage that his chair should not be close to her own.Occasionally she would walk with him, but not more frequently nowthan of yore. Very few, indeed, of a lover's privileges did heenjoy. And in this way the long year wore itself out, and Isa Heinewas one-and-twenty.All those family details which had made it inexpedient to applyeither to old Hatto or to Herbert's father before the end of theyear need not be specially explained. Old Hatto, who had by far thegreater share in the business, was a tyrant somewhat feared both byhis brother and sister-in-law; and the elder Onslow, as was known tothem all, was a man straitened in circumstances. But soon after NewYear's Day the proposition was made in the Schrannen Platz, and theletter was written. On this occasion Madame Heine went down to thebank, and together with her husband, was closeted for an hour withold Hatto. Uncle Hatto's verdict was not favourable. As to theyoung people's marriage, that was his brother's affair, not his.But as to the partnership, that was a serious matter. Who everheard of a partnership being given away merely because a man wantedto marry? He would keep to his promise, and if the stipulatedmoneys were forthcoming, Herbert Onslow should become a partner,--infour years. Nor was the reply from England more favourable. Thealliance was regarded by all the Onslows very favourably. Nothingcould be nicer than such a marriage! They already knew dear Isa sowell by description! But as for the money,--that could not in anyway be forthcoming till the end of the stipulated period."And what shall we do?" said Herbert to Papa Heine."You must wait," said he."For four years?" asked Herbert."You must wait,--as I did," said Papa Heine. "I was forty before Icould marry." Papa Heine, however, should not have forgotten to saythat his bride was only twenty, and that if he had waited, she hadnot."Isa," Herbert said to her, when all this had been fully explainedto her, "what do you say now?""Of course it is all over," said she, very calmly."Oh, Isa, is that your love?""No, Herbert, that is not my love; that is my discretion;" and sheeven laughed with her mild low laughter, as she answered him. "Youknow you are too impatient to wait four years, and what elsetherefore can I say?""I wonder whether you love me?" said Herbert, with a grand look ofinjured sentiment."Well; in your sense of the word I do not think I do. I do not loveyou so that I need make every one around us unhappy becausecircumstances forbid me to marry you. That sort of love would bebaneful.""Ah no, you do not know what love means!""Not your boisterous, heartbreaking English love, Herbert. And,Herbert, sometimes I think you had better go home and look for abride there. Though you fancy that you love me, in your heart youhardly approve of me.""Fancy that I love you! Do you think, Isa, that a man can carry hisheart round to one customer after another as the huckster carrieshis wares?""Yes; I think he can. I know that men do. What did your heroWaverley do with his heart in that grand English novel which yougave me to read? I am not Flora Mac Ivor, but you may find a RoseBradwardine.""And you really wish me to do so?""Look here, Herbert. It is bad to boast, but I will make thisboast. I am so little selfish, that I desire above all that youshould do that which may make you most happy and contented. I willbe quite frank with you. I love you well enough to wait these fouryears with the hope of becoming your wife when they are over. Butyou will think but little of my love when I tell you that thiswaiting would not make me unhappy. I should go on as I do now, andbe contented.""Oh heavens!" sighed Herbert."But as I know that this would not suit you,--as I feel sure thatsuch delay would gall you every day, as I doubt whether it would notmake you sick of me long before the four years be over,--my adviceis, that we should let this matter drop."He now walked up to her and took her hand, and as he did so therewas something in his gait and look and tone of voice that stirredher heart more sharply than it had yet been stirred. "And even thatwould not make you unhappy," he said.She paused before she replied, leaving her hand in his, for he wascontented to hold it without peculiar pressure. "I will not sayso," she replied. "But, Herbert, I think that you press me toohard. Is it not enough that I leave you to be the arbiter of mydestiny?""I would learn the very truth of your heart," he replied."I cannot tell you that truth more plainly. Methinks I have told ittoo plainly already. If you wish it, I will hold myself as engagedto you,--to be married to you when those four years are past. But,remember, I do not advise it. If you wish it, you shall have backyour troth. And that I think will be the wiser course."But neither alternative contented Herbert Onslow, and at the time hedid not resolve on either. He had some little present income fromhome, some fifty pounds a year or so, and he would be satisfied tomarry on that and on his salary as a clerk; but to this papa andmamma Heine would not consent;--neither would Isa."You are not a saving, close man," she said to him when he boastedof his economies. "No Englishmen are. You could not livecomfortably in two small rooms, and with bad dinners.""I do not care a straw about my dinners.""Not now that you are a lover, but you would do when you were ahusband. And you change your linen almost every day.""Bah!""Yes; bah, if you please. But I know what these things cost. Youhad better go to England and fetch a rich wife. Then you willbecome a partner at once, and Uncle Hatto won't snub you. And youwill be a grand man, and have a horse to ride on." WhereuponHerbert went away in disgust. Nothing in all this made him sounhappy as the feeling that Isa, under all their joint privations,would not be unhappy herself. As far as he could see, all this madeno difference in Isa.But, in truth, he had not yet read Isa's character very thoroughly.She had spoken truly in saying that she knew nothing of thatboisterous love which was now tormenting him and making him gloomy;but nevertheless she loved him. She, in her short life, had learntmany lessons of self-denial; and now with reference to this half-promised husband she would again have practised such a lesson. Hadhe agreed at once to go from her, she would have balanced her ownaccount within her own breast, and have kept to herself all hersufferings. There would have been no outward show of baffled love,--none even in the colour of her cheeks; for such was the nature ofher temperament. But she did suffer for him. Day by day she beganto think that his love, though boisterous as she had at first calledit, was more deep-seated than she had believed. He made noslightest sign that he would accept any of those proffers which shehad made him of release. Though he said so loudly that this waitingfor four years was an impossibility, he spoke of no course thatwould be more possible,--except that evidently impossible course ofan early marriage. And thus, while he with redoubled vehemencecharged her with coolness and want of love, her love waxed warmerand warmer, and his happiness became the chief object of herthoughts. What could she do that he might no longer suffer?And then he took a step which was very strange to them all. Hebanished himself altogether from the house, going away again intolodgings. "No," he said, on the morning of his departure, "I do notrelease you. I will never release you. You are mine, and I have aright so to call you. If you choose to release yourself, I cannothelp it; but in doing so you will be forsworn.""Nay, but, Herbert, I have sworn to nothing," said she, meaning thatshe had not been formally betrothed to him."You can do as you please; it is a matter of conscience; but I tellyou what are my feelings. Here I cannot stay, for I should go mad;but I shall see you occasionally;--perhaps on Sundays.""Oh, Herbert!""Well, what would you have? If you really cared to see me it wouldnot be thus. All I ask of you now is this, that if you decide,--absolutely decide on throwing me over, you will tell me at once.Then I shall leave Munich.""Herbert, I will never throw you over." So they parted, and Onslowwent forth to his new lodgings.Her promise that she would never throw him over was the warmest wordof love that she had ever spoken, but even that was said in her ownquiet, unimpassioned way. There was in it but very little show oflove, though there might be an assurance of constancy. But herconstancy he did not, in truth, much doubt. Four years,--fourteen,--or twenty-four, would be the same to her, he said, as he seatedhimself in the dull, cold room which he had chosen. While living inthe Ludwigs Strasse he did not know how much had been daily done forhis comfort by that hand which he had been so seldom allowed topress; but he knew that he was now cold and comfortless, and hewished himself back in the Ludwigs Strasse."Mamma," said Isa, when they were alone. "Is not Uncle Hatto ratherhard on us? Papa said that he would ask this as a favour from hisbrother.""So he did, my dear; and offered to give up more of his own time.But your Uncle Hatto is hard.""He is rich, is he not?""Well; your father says not. Your father says that he spends allhis income. Though he is hard and obstinate, he is not selfish. Heis very good to the poor, but I believe he thinks that earlymarriages are very foolish.""Mamma," said Isa again, when they had sat for some minutes insilence over their work."Well, my love?""Have you spoken to Uncle Hatto about this?""No, dear; not since that day when your papa and I first went tohim. To tell the truth, I am almost afraid to speak to him; but, ifyou wish it, I will do so.""I do wish it, mamma. But you must not think that I am discontentedor impatient. I do not know that I have any right to ask my unclefor his money;--for it comes to that.""I suppose it does, my dear.""And as for myself, I am happy here with you and papa. I do notthink so much of these four years.""You would still be young, Isa;--quite young enough.""And what if I were not young? What does it matter? But, mamma,there has been that between Herbert and me which makes me feelmyself bound to think of him. As you and papa have sanctioned it,you are bound to think of him also. I know that he is unhappy,living there all alone.""But why did he go, dear?""I think he was right to go. I could understand his doing that. Heis not like us, and would have been fretful here, wanting that whichI could not give him. He became worse from day to day, and wassilent and morose. I am glad he went. But, mamma, for his sake Iwish that this could be shortened."Madame Heine told her daughter that she would, if Isa wished it,herself go to the Schrannen Platz, and see what could be done bytalking to Uncle Hatto. "But," she added, "I fear that no good willcome of it.""Can harm come, mamma?""No, I do not think harm can come.""I'll tell you what, mamma, I will go to Uncle Hatto myself, if youwill let me. He is cross I know; but I shall not be afraid of him.I feel that I ought to do something." And so the matter wassettled, Madame Heine being by no means averse to escape a furtherpersonal visit to the Head of the banking establishment.Madame Heine well understood what her daughter meant, when she saidshe ought to do something, though Isa feared that she hadimperfectly expressed her meaning. When he, Herbert, was willing todo so much to prove his love,--when he was ready to sacrifice allthe little comforts of comparative wealth to which he had beenaccustomed, in order that she might be his companion and wife,--didit not behove her to give some proof of her love also? She couldnot be demonstrative as he was. Such exhibition of feeling would bequite contrary to her ideas of female delicacy, and to her verynature. But if called on to work for him, that she could do as longas strength remained to her. But there was no sacrifice which wouldbe of service, nor any work which would avail. Therefore she wasdriven to think what she might do on his behalf, and at last sheresolved to make her personal appeal to Uncle Hatto."Shall I tell papa?" Isa asked of her mother."I will do so," said Madame Heine. And then the younger member ofthe firm was informed as to the step which was to be taken; and he,though he said nothing to forbid the attempt, held out no hope thatit would be successful.Uncle Hatto was a little snuffy man, now full seventy years of age,who passed seven hours of every week-day of his life in the darkback chamber behind the banking-room of the firm, and he had sopassed every week-day of his life for more years than any of thefamily could now remember. He had made the house what it was, andhad taken his brother into partnership when that brother married.All the family were somewhat afraid of him, including even hispartner. He rarely came to the apartments in the Ludwigs Strasse,as he himself lived in one of the older and shabbier suburbs on theother side of the town. Thither he always walked, startingpunctually from the bank at four o'clock, and from thence he alwayswalked in the morning, reaching the bank punctually at nine. Histwo nieces knew him well; for on certain stated days they were wontto attend on him at his lodgings, where they would be regaled withcakes, and afterwards go with him to some old-fashioned beer-gardenin his neighbourhood. But these festivities were of a sombre kind;and if, on any occasion, circumstances prevented the fulfilment ofthe ceremony, neither of the girls would be loud in theirlamentations.In London, a visit paid by a niece to her uncle would, in allprobability, be made at the uncle's private residence; but at Munichprivate and public matters were not so effectually divided. Isatherefore, having put on her hat and shawl, walked off by herself tothe Schrannen Platz."Is Uncle Hatto inside?" she asked; and the answer was given to herby her own lover. Yes, he was within; but the old clerk was withhim. Isa, however, signified her wish to see her uncle alone, andin a few minutes the ancient grey-haired servant of the house cameout into the larger room."You can go in now, Miss Isa," he said. And Isa found herself inthe presence of her uncle before she had been two minutes under theroof. In the mean time Ernest Heine, her father, had said not aword, and Herbert knew that something very special must be about tooccur."Well, my bonny bird," said Uncle Hatto, "and what do you want atthe bank?" Cheery words, such as these, were by no means uncommonwith Uncle Hatto; but Isa knew very well that no presage could bedrawn from them of any special good nature or temporary weakness onhis part."Uncle Hatto," she began, rushing at once into the middle of heraffair, "you know, I believe, that I am engaged to marry HerbertOnslow?""I know no such thing," said he. "I thought I understood yourfather specially to say that there had been no betrothal.""No, Uncle Hatto, there has been no betrothal; that certainly istrue; but, nevertheless, we are engaged to each other.""Well," said Uncle Hatto, very sourly; and now there was no longerany cheery tone, or any calling of pretty names."Perhaps you may think all this very foolish," said Isa, who, spiteof her resolves to do so, was hardly able to look up gallantly intoher uncle's face as she thus talked of her own love affairs."Yes, I do," said Uncle Hatto. "I do think it foolish for youngpeople to hold themselves betrothed before they have got anything tolive on, and so I have told your father. He answered me by sayingthat you were not betrothed.""Nor are we. Papa is quite right in that.""Then, my dear, I would advise you to tell the young man that, asneither of you have means of your own, the thing must be at an end.It is the only step for you to take. If you agreed to wait, one ofyou might die, or his money might never be forth coming, or youmight see somebody else that you liked better.""I don't think I shall do that.""You can't tell. And if you don't, the chances are ten to one thathe will."This little blow, which was intended to be severe, did not hit Isaat all hard. That plan of a Rose Bradwardine she herself hadproposed in good faith, thinking that she could endure such atermination to the affair without flinching. She was probably wrongin this estimate of her power; but, nevertheless, her present objectwas his release from unhappiness and doubt, not her own."It might be so," she said."Take my word for it, it would. Look all around. There wasAdelaide Schropner,--but that was before your time, and you wouldnot remember." Considering that Adelaide Schropner had been formany years a grandmother, it was probable that Isa would notremember."But, Uncle Hatto, you have not heard me. I want to say somethingto you, if it will not take too much of your time." In answer towhich, Uncle Hatto muttered something which was unheeded, to signifythat Isa might speak."I also think that a long engagement is a foolish thing, and so doesHerbert.""But he wants to marry at once.""Yes, he wants to marry--perhaps not at once, but soon.""And I suppose you have come to say that you want the same thing."Isa blushed ever so faintly as she commenced her answer. "Yes,uncle, I do wish the same thing. What he wishes, I wish.""Very likely,--very likely.""Don't be scornful to me, uncle. When two people love each other,it is natural that each should wish that which the other earnestlydesires.""Oh, very natural, my dear, that you should wish to get married!""Uncle Hatto, I did not think that you would be unkind to me, thoughI knew that you would be stern.""Well, go on. What have you to say? I am not stern; but I have nodoubt you will think me unkind. People are always unkind who do notdo what they are asked.""Papa says that Herbert Onslow is some day to become a partner inthe bank.""That depends on certain circumstances. Neither I nor your papa cansay whether he will or no."But Isa went on as though she had not heard the last reply. "I havecome to ask you to admit him as a partner at once.""Ah, I supposed so;--just as you might ask me to give you a newribbon.""But, uncle, I never did ask you to give me a new ribbon. I neverasked you to give me anything for myself; nor do I ask this formyself.""Do you think that if I could do it,--which of course I can't,--Iwould not sooner do it for you, who are my own flesh and blood, thanfor him, who is a stranger?""Nay; he is no stranger. He has sat at your desk and obeyed yourorders for nearly four years. Papa says that he has done well inthe bank.""Humph! If every clerk that does well,--pretty well, that is,--wanted a partnership, where should we be, my dear? No, my dear, gohome and tell him when you see him in the evening that all this mustbe at an end. Men's places in the world are not given away soeasily as that. They must either be earned or purchased. HerbertOnslow has as yet done neither, and therefore he is not entitled totake a wife. I should have been glad to have had a wife at hisage,--at least I suppose I should, but at any rate I could notafford it."But Isa had by no means as yet done. So far the interview hadprogressed exactly as she had anticipated. She had never supposedit possible that her uncle would grant her so important a request assoon as she opened her mouth to ask it. She had not for a momentexpected that things would go so easily with her. Indeed she hadnever expected that any success would attend her efforts; but, ifany success were possible, the work which must achieve that successmust now commence. It was necessary that she should first state herrequest plainly before she began to urge it with such eloquence asshe had at her command."I can understand what you say, Uncle Hatto.""I am glad of that, at any rate.""And I know that I have no right to ask you for anything.""I do not say that. Anything in reason, that a girl like you shouldask of her old uncle, I would give you.""I have no such reasonable request to make, uncle. I have neverwanted new ribbons from you or gay toys. Even from my own mother Ihave not wanted them;--not wanted them faster than they seemed tocome without any asking.""No, no; you have been a good girl.""I have been a happy girl; and quite happy with those I loved, andwith what Providence had given me. I had nothing to ask for. Butnow I am no longer happy, nor can I be unless you do for me thiswhich I ask of you. I have wanted nothing till now, and now in myneed I come to you.""And now you want a husband with a fortune!""No!" and that single word she spoke, not loudly, for her voice waslow and soft, but with an accent which carried it sharply to his earand to his brain. And then she rose from her seat as she went on."Your scorn, uncle, is unjust,--unjust and untrue. I have everacted maidenly, as has become my mother's daughter.""Yes, yes, yes;--I believe that.""And I can say more than that for myself. My thoughts have been thesame, nor have my wishes even, ever gone beyond them. And when thisyoung man came to me, telling me of his feelings, I gave him noanswer till I had consulted my mother.""She should have bade you not to think of him.""Ah, you are not a mother, and cannot know. Why should I not thinkof him when he was good and kind, honest and hardworking? And thenhe had thought of me first. Why should I not think of him? Did notmamma listen to my father when he came to her?""But your father was forty years old, and had a business.""You gave it him, Uncle Hatto. I have heard him say.""And therefore I am to do as much for you. And then next year Agneswill come to me; and so before I die I shall see you all in want,with large families. No, Isa; I will not scorn you, but this thingI cannot do.""But I have not told you all yet. You say that I want a husband.""Well, well; I did not mean to say it harshly.""I do want--to be married." And here her courage failed her alittle, and for a moment her eye fell to the ground. "It is true,uncle. He has asked me whether I could love him, and I have toldhim I could. He has asked me whether I would be his wife, and Ihave given him a promise. After that, must not his happiness be myhappiness, and his misery my misery? Am I not his wife alreadybefore God?""No, no," said Uncle Hatto, loudly."Ah, but I am. None feel the strength of the bonds but those whoare themselves bound. I know my duty to my father and mother, andwith God's help I will do it, but I am not the less bound to him.Without their approval I will not stand with him at the altar; butnot the less is my lot joined to his for this world. Nothing couldrelease me from that but his wish.""And he will wish it in a month or two.""Excuse me, Uncle Hatto, but in that I can only judge for myself asbest I may. He has loved me now for two years--""Psha!""And whether it be wise or foolish, I have sanctioned it. I cannotnow go back with honour, even if my own heart would let me. Hiswelfare must be my welfare, and his sorrow my sorrow. Therefore Iam bound to do for him anything that a girl may do for the man sheloves; and, as I knew of no other resource, I come to you to helpme.""And he, sitting out there, knows what you are saying.""Most certainly not. He knows no more than that he has seen meenter this room.""I am glad of that, because I would not wish that he should bedisappointed. In this matter, my dear, I cannot do anything foryou.""And that is your last answer, uncle?""Yes, indeed. When you come to think over this some twenty yearshence, you will know then that I am right, and that your request wasunreasonable."It may be so," she replied, "but I do not think it.""It will be so. Such favours as you now ask are not granted in thisworld for light reasons.""Light reasons! Well, uncle, I have had my say, and will not takeup your time longer.""Good-bye, my dear. I am sorry that I cannot oblige you;--that itis quite out of my power to oblige you."Then she went, giving him her hand as she parted from him; and he,as she left the room looked anxiously at her, watching hercountenance and her gait, and listening to the very fall of herfootstep. "Ah," he said to himself; when he was alone, "the youngpeople have the best of it. The sun shines for them; but why shouldthey have all? Poor as he is, he is a happy dog,--a happy dog. Butshe is twice too good for him. Why did she not take to one of herown country?"Isa, as she passed through the bank, smiled sweetly on her father,and then smiled sweetly at her lover, nodding to him with a pleasantkindly nod. If he could have heard all that had passed at thatinterview, how much more he would have known of her than he nowknew, and how proud he would have been of her love. No word wasspoken as she went out, and then she walked home with even step, asshe had walked thither. It can hardly be said that she wasdisappointed, as she had expected nothing. But people hope who donot expect, and though her step was even and her face calm, yet herheart was sad."Mamma," she said, "there is no hope from Uncle Hatto.""So I feared, my dear.""But I thought it right to try--for Herbert's sake.""I hope it will not do him an injury in the bank.""Oh, mamma, do not put that into my head. If that were added to itall, I should indeed be wretched.""No; he is too just for that. Poor young man! Sometimes I almostthink it would be better that he should go back to England.""Mamma, if he did, I should--break my heart.""Isa!""Well, mamma! But do not suppose that I mean to complain, whateverhappens.""But I had been so sure that you had constrained your feelings!""So I had,--till I knew myself. Mamma, I could wait for years, ifhe were contented to wait by my side. If I could see him happy, Icould watch him and love him, and be happy also. I do not want tohave him kneeling to me, and making sweet speeches; but it has gonetoo far now,--and I could not bear to lose him." And thus to hermother she confessed the truth.There was nothing more said between Isa and her mother on thesubject, and for two days the matter remained as it then stood.Madame Heine had been deeply grieved at hearing those last wordswhich her daughter had spoken. To her also that state of quiescencewhich Isa had so long affected seemed to be the proper state atwhich a maiden's heart should stand till after her marriage vows hadbeen pronounced. She had watched her Isa, and had approved ofeverything,--of everything till this last avowal had been made. Butnow, though she could not approve, she expressed no disapproval inwords. She pressed her daughter's hand and sighed, and then the twosaid no more upon the matter. In this way, for two days, there wassilence in the apartments in the Ludwigs Strasse; for even when thefather returned from his work, the whole circle felt that their oldfamily mirth was for the present necessarily laid aside.On the morning of the third day, about noon, Madame Heine returnedhome from the market with Isa, and as they reached the landing,Agnes met them with a packet. "Fritz brought it from the bank,"said Agnes. Now Fritz was the boy who ran messages and swept outthe office, and Madame Heine put out her hand for the parcel,thinking, not unnaturally, that it was for her. But Agnes would notgive it to her mother, "It is for you, Isa," she said. Then Isa,looking at the address, recognised the handwriting of her uncle."Mamma," she said, "I will come to you directly;" and then shepassed quickly away into her own room.The parcel was soon opened, and contained a note from her uncle, anda stiff, large document, looking as though it had come from thehands of a lawyer. Isa glanced at the document, and read some fewof the words on the outer fold, but they did not carry home to hermind any clear perception of their meaning. She was flurried at themoment, and the words, perhaps, were not very plain. Then she tookup her note, and that was plain enough. It was very short, and ranas follows:-

　　"My dear Niece,You told me on Monday that I was stern, and harsh, and unjust.Perhaps I was. If so, I hope the enclosed will make amends, andthat you will not think me such an old fool as I think myself."Your affectionate uncle,

　　"Hatto Heine."I have told nobody yet, and the enclosed will require my brother'ssignature; but I suppose he will not object."

　　"But he does not know it, mamma," said Isa. "Who is to tell him?Oh, mamma, you must tell him.""Nay, my dear; but it must be your own present to him.""I could not give it him. It is Uncle Hatto's present Mamma, when Ileft him I thought that his eye was kind to me.""His heart, at any rate, has been very kind." And then again theylooked over the document, and talked of the wedding which must nowbe near at hand. But still they had not as yet decided how Herbertshould be informed.At last Isa resolved that she herself would write to him. She didwrite, and this was her letter:-

　　Dear Herbert,Mamma and I wish to see you, and beg that you will come up to usthis evening. We have tidings for you which I hope you will receivewith joy. I may as well tell you at once, as I do not wish toflurry you. Uncle Hatto has sent to us a document which admits youas a partner into the bank. If; therefore, you wish to go on withour engagement, I suppose there is nothing now to cause any verygreat delay.Isa.

　　The letter was very simple, and Isa, when she had written it,subsided into all her customary quiescence. Indeed, when Herbertcame to the Ludwigs Strasse, not in the evening as he was bidden todo, but instantly, leaving his own dinner uneaten, and coming uponthe Heines in the midst of their dinner, she was more than usuallytranquil. But his love was, as she had told him, boisterous. Hecould not contain himself, and embraced them all, and then scoldedIsa because she was so calm."Why should I not be calm," said she, "now that I know you arehappy?"The house in the Schrannen Platz still goes by the name of HeineBrothers, but the mercantile world in Bavaria, and in some citiesout of Bavaria, is well aware that the real pith and marrow of thebusiness is derived from the energy of the young English partner.THE END.* * * * * * * * * * * *