_NONNENWALD._
WE must now return to Nonnenwald and the family of Gertrude Reinhart.
Gertrude had never wavered in her determination to go to America. For
this end she saved and economized in every corner and worked almost
night and day. She made butter and sold it, raised fowls and calves and
fatted them for market; and when there was nothing else to be done,
her flax-wheel was never idle. Meantime, she and her children ate the
plainest food and wore their old clothes as long as they could be
kept decent. Once possessed of an object to work for beyond the mere
keeping of soul and body together, her spirits returned and increased
with her toil, and every one remarked how well Gertrude Reinhart was
looking, notwithstanding the fact that her light never seemed to go out
by night, and she worked in the field like a man—a thing she had never
done while her husband was at home.
Circumstances favoured her. A legacy from a distant relation enabled
her to buy back the cows she had sold. The landgrave, moved by a tardy
sense of justice, exempted from all taxes the families of the soldiers
fighting in America. She found a ready sale for all her wares in the
market at Fulda. No butter was so hard and yellow as hers, no cheese so
well pressed and flavoured, and her fine thread was eagerly sought by
the traders and by the lace-makers. She soon had money out at interest,
and the interest was constantly added to the principal.
People said truly that Gertrude was growing a rich woman, and they
added what was not true—that as she grew rich she became stingy in
proportion. Gertrude was not stingy. The poor village idiot, the poor
widow whose only son had been carried away to die of fever before he
was fairly embarked for America, could have told a different story. So
could the pastor, if he had chosen, but he was at this time most deeply
interested in the heresies of the third century; and, though he did not
forget to dispense the alms Gertrude put into his hand, he did forget
where they came from, and very likely thought they rained down from the
clouds like manna.
Of course the children had their share in the sacrifice. Gustaf was a
hardy little fellow. He went to the village school, fed the hens, drove
up the cows, and spent his spare time in any amusement which gave him
the luxury of perpetual motion in the open air. He never lacked an
appetite for his black bread and milk morning and night and his cabbage
soup in the middle of the day, and took no trouble about his clothes
so long as they were not fine enough to be hurt by birds-nesting in
the woods or crystal-hunting in the torrent-beds on the mountain-side.
He was a good and pleasant child, who always did well everything that
could be done with hands; but he groaned sadly over his books, and the
schoolmaster declared that all the birch-rods that ever grew in the
Thuringerwald could never make a scholar of him. Uncle Franz had done
more for him by promising to teach him the use of the rifle as soon as
he could do a sum in compound division, and under the influence of that
stimulus, Gustaf was making fair progress with his arithmetic.
Greta had begun with great enthusiasm the work of making and saving
money, but perhaps she had not altogether counted the cost, for she
was certainly growing rather tired of it. She had not realized that
saving money to go to America meant wearing her last winter's frock,
and buying no new ribbons, and laying aside her beloved lace-making
for the more profitable work of feeding calves and hens and spinning
woollen yarn. She had always considered herself somewhat superior
to her cousins and the other village-girls of her own age, but this
superiority somehow did not prevent her feeling mortified when Lenchen
had a new stuff gown and petticoat and Truda a new red cloak of fine
cloth, while she must furbish up the gown she had worn two years
already and wrap herself in the cloak which was already threadbare. The
very fact that she was vexed at such a little matter vexed her all the
more, as it showed her that she was not quite the grand person she had
believed herself to be, and certainly did not tend to make her more
amiable.
If people could only have known "why" she did not go to the
ribbon-peddler's booth at the fair and wore her old clothes, she should
not have minded it so much; but Gertrude had thought it best to keep
her design a secret—at least till she saw some probability of putting
it into execution. Greta would not perhaps have been willing to give up
the design of going to America, but she did wish in her heart that it
had never been thought of. She began to think that perhaps life under
the landgrave might not be so insupportable, after all.
Uncle Franz, who was growing old, had a young assistant, a certain
grand-nephew; and what was more natural than that he should often go
and see his relations, to give Philip a promising knot of wood for his
carving or carry to his aunt a pair of the rabbits or birds which in
the absence of the landgrave, who was growing rather fat for hunting,
were the perquisites of the huntsman? It was quite beautiful to see
what a dutiful step-nephew (if there be such a relation) Gertrude had
found in Louis Rosekranz.
And Philip? Philip had grown large and strong, grave and manly.
Assisted by an old labourer who had worked for his father, he did most
of the labour of the little farm. His aim was to bring the place into
the best of order against the time when he should wish to sell it,
and meantime to make it produce enough for the support of the family.
He had so far succeeded very well. The apple-orchard, pruned and
cultivated once more, hung heavy with fruit, and the little vineyard
had never been more productive. By degrees everything about the place
was put into that state of perfect repair in which it had been Caspar's
pride to maintain it. Even the forge was once more in order, and,
rented to a responsible and industrious tenant, added its mite to the
family revenues.
Philip had little time now for his favourite books, and his carving was
mostly limited to bowls and spoons of pear-tree and walnut wood, some
of them daintily ornamented with leaves and flowers and other devices,
which found a ready sale in Fulda and Eisenach. He had made the cross
for his little brother's grave and put it up in the churchyard. It was
much admired, and before long he found on his hands more orders for
crosses and tablets than he could fill in the long winter evenings,
which were mostly devoted to this work.
He made it a rule to read a few lines every day of the Latin and
Greek which he had learned with his uncle—a habit which kept him from
forgetting entirely that which he had acquired, and which may be
practised with great advantage by people in like circumstances. If he
had any regrets or repinings, he kept them to himself or imparted than
to nobody but Brother Gotthold, still a frequent visitor at the little
stone cottage; and if he entertained any secret ambition, it was still
Brother Gotthold who was privy to it. In fact, a very warm and intimate
friendship existed between the old man and the young one.
Still the days went on, and no news came to the family at the stone
house of the husband and father they had lost. Other people had
letters, but, strangely enough, nobody said anything about Caspar
Reinhart. At last, late in the autumn of the year 1782, came news that
the regiment was coming home directly, that it had already landed and
was on its way through Prussia, and, finally, that the men would reach
their homes on All Saints' day, the first day of November. Everybody
was in a joyful bustle of preparation, but there were many sad hearts
sore with the loss of friends or sick with suspense, which scorned to
grow more dreadful as it came near being changed to certainty.
Gertrude was one of the last of these. She would not admit even to
herself that she expected to see her husband. She had said again and
again to herself and to others that she was certain Caspar was dead,
since he had never written, and that she only refrained from putting on
mourning in deference to the feelings of her children. Nevertheless,
the news she heard came to her with a fearful shock, and it lost
nothing by the way in which she received it.
Captain Burger's company was one of the last in the train which
entered the village on All Saints' day. The worthy captain was not in
a good-humour. He had missed the promotion which he had confidently
expected. He had not married a fortune, as he fully intended to do,
nor had he enriched himself with plunder, like some others. To do him
justice, the latter circumstance did not arise from any lack of zeal or
industry on his part, but rather to an inveterate habit of gambling.
In short, the doughty captain was under a cloud, and not unlikely to
remain so.
"Your husband, woman? What should I know of your husband?" he answered,
roughly enough, when Gertrude questioned him.
"What was his name?"
"Caspar Reinhart—a smith from Nonnenwald," answered Gertrude, briefly.
"Oh, Caspar Reinhart! Yes, yes, I remember," said he, pretending to
consider. "Oh yes! He deserted one fine day to escape the flogging he
richly merited, and was drowned in the bay. Never mind, good woman; I
dare say you may easily get another as good."
Gertrude turned away with ashy cheeks and compressed lips, and went
into the house. She thought, as so many have thought under like
circumstances that she had given him up before; but giving up is not
so easy. Greta and Gustaf were drowned in tears, but Gertrude had no
tears to shed. She went about her housework as usual, but with such a
face that the neighbours who came to condole with her in her grief went
away scared at her unnatural composure and strange looks, and whispered
among themselves that Gertrude Reinhart was going mad.
Later in the day, Philip came in.
"Where is my mother?" he said to Greta, who was still sobbing in
passionate abandonment of grief.
"She is out feeding the hens. I cannot tell what ails her," answered
Greta. "I cannot make her keep quiet or speak a word. Do try to see
what you can do. Perhaps she will hear you. Where have you been all
this thee?"
"Gathering news," said Philip. "I did not believe that man's story, and
I have been asking my father's comrades about him.—Mother dear, will
you come here?" he called, stepping to the door. "I have something to
tell you."
Philip's voice conveyed perhaps more of hopefulness than he felt.
Gertrude came at once into the house, and sat down in the chair which
Philip placed for her. Her eyes were still dry and glittering, but her
colour changed and she looked less ghastly.
"I have been talking with the men," Philip began, without any preface.
"That brute's news was not true, or at least not certain. Sergeant
Meyer tells me that my father did not desert, but was exchanged into
Von Falkenstein's troop of horse, where he was regimental smith."
Gertrude drew a deep breath.
"That wretch!" said Greta. "I should like to kill him."
"Let him alone for a fool," said Philip. "Meyer says that so long as he
was with the regiment, my father bore the best character for steadiness
and good conduct; that he might have deserted a dozen times over if
he had chosen, and as hundreds did, but he was always at his post and
ready for duty; that no man could be braver in action, though he always
refused to help plunder and kill the poor country-people, and would
always protect the women and children when he could; and he believes
Burger spited him for that very reason."
Gertrude's eyes had grown softer, and now overflowed with grateful
tears.
"'I' never believed father would do anything dishonourable," said
Gustaf, proudly. "He might be killed, but he would never run away."
"But you heard no certain news?" said Gertrude.
"No. Meyer says the Waldeckers went south after they left Philadelphia,
and they never met again. The Waldeckers were in the last great
battle—Yorktown, I think they call it—where the great English lord
surrendered to the Americans. They came home two months ago, and
Colonel von Falkenstein, Meyer says, is living in his own home near
Waldeck. With your permission, dear mother, I will go thither, and it
will be hard, but I will obtain certain news of my father."
"And how will you manage to gain access to him, my son? He is a great
man, I suppose."
"I have thought of that," answered Philip. "Count von Meyren is Herr
von Falkenstein's own cousin, and they are great friends. I am sure he
will give me a letter to his cousin when I tell him why I want it. He
was always kind to me when I lived in Fulda. And even if I do not see
Herr von Falkenstein himself, I shall find plenty of old soldiers who
knew my father."
"Bless thee, my son! Thou art thy father's own boy, and shalt do as
thou wilt," said Gertrude. "Anything is better than this uncertainty.
When will you set out?"
"This very day, if Uncle Franz will lend me a horse and you will
furnish me with money. I can go to Fulda to-night, and see the count
to-morrow morning. Then I can set out on my journey to Waldeck
to-morrow afternoon."
"I wish I could go," said Gustaf.
"You must stay at home and take care of the mother and Greta," answered
Philip, his spirits rising, as they always did when he found anything
to do. "But if mother is willing, you shall come with me to Uncle Franz
to see if he will lend me the old gray."
"You are very confident," said Greta, feeling a certain degree of
vexation for which she would have found it hard to account. "I don't
believe you will find it so easy to gain access to all these grand
people as you think. If you could persuade Louis Rosekranz to go—" She
paused, and was provoked to find herself colouring under Philip's look
and smile.
"Louis Rosekranz is a good fellow, but I prefer to do my own business
myself, little sister," said Philip. "I know all the good old count's
ways exactly, even to the sunny terrace where I shall find him pacing
up and down with two dogs after him at nine o'clock to-morrow morning.
He never refuses to hear the poorest woman or child on his estate who
comes to him with a petition.—Come, Gustaf; there is no time to lose."
Philip found his uncle overflowing with rage at Captain Burger, and
quite ready to lend him not only his best horse, but his best pair of
pistols into the bargain.
Another good fortune awaited him at the lodge in the person of his old
friend, Count Maurice, who had come down for a few days' shooting.
Count Maurice had grown older and graver, and was dressed in mourning.
He remembered Philip directly, and on hearing the object of his
journey, he at once offered his assistance.
"I know Von Falkenstein, and will give you a note to him, which will
save you so much time. He is a good-natured old man at heart, but you
must not be discouraged if he is crabbed at first. He is a good deal
like some of the stones of the mountain here—rough and hard without,
but pure and clear within.—I hear that your mother is living and doing
well. Does she still keep up her intention of going to America?"
"Yes, Your Highness, but we do not speak of it yet. I hope Count Victor
is well?"
Maurice's face saddened.
"Victor has left me," said he. "He died in great peace and hope a
year ago. I may well do all I can for you, Philip, since to you was
indirectly owing the comfort which brightened my dear brother's last
days. But I cannot talk of it now. I am coming to see your mother
before I leave. Here is your uncle with the horse; and a grand old
fellow he is, with plenty of fire in him still. Are you sure you are
equal to managing him?"
"I think so, Your Highness!"
"Philip? He will handle any horse that ever stepped, as quiet as he
looks," said Franz as he put the bridle into Philip's hands.—"There,
my boy! Good luck go with you!—There goes as fine a young fellow as
ever stepped on shoe-leather," he added as Philip rode away. "Not a bit
of show or bravado about him, but always prompt and ready for action,
whatever it may be. His father was just so before him."
Philip made his journey in two days and part of another, and arrived at
Waldeck in the afternoon. He put up his horse at a decent little inn,
and after taking some refreshment and getting rid of the soil of the
journey, he asked his way to Herr von Falkenstein's house.
"You have but to follow your nose up the street and you come to the
gates as soon as you cross the bridge," answered the host. "The old
Herr is at home, I know, for I saw him this very day."
Philip found his way easily enough; and accosting the first domestic he
met, he made known to him his desire to speak with his master.
"And who are you who desire to see the Herr?" asked the man, with some
insolence. "Do you think he is to be at the beck and call of every
booby, like a country doctor?"
"I have a letter and message for him from Count Maurice of Nassau,"
answered Philip, keeping his temper, though the man's manner was
sufficiently provoking.
"Well, give them to me, and I will deliver them."
"With your allowance, no. I was to put the letter into the Herr's own
hands."
"Yes, that is a likely story. Give me the letter if you have one, or I
will have you chased off the place."
"Or be chased off yourself," said a tall, gray-haired old man who had
been an unseen spectator, stepping forward from behind a screen. "Who
is this to whom you use such threats without your master's knowledge?"
The servant looked blank and crestfallen enough.
"It is—it is only a country-fellow, Your Excellency," he stammered.
"He pretends to have a letter for Your Excellency, and I thought Your
Excellency would not care to be troubled, if Your Excellency pleases."
"My Excellency will please to lay my cane about your ears some day,"
said the gray-haired man, whom Philip at once guessed to be Von
Falkenstein himself.—"What are your name and business, young man?"
"My name is Philip Reinhart, and I have a letter from Count Maurice to
Your Excellency," answered Philip, quietly as usual, though his heart
was beating so as almost to stop his breath.
"Reinhart? Reinhart? I should know the name," said the old gentleman,
musingly.
He broke the seal of the note, which Philip handed him, and glanced
over it.
"Yes, yes, I understand," said he, kindly. "I thought I knew the name,
and the face also, I might say, for you are very like your father. I
remember him well. But this is not the place to talk of such matters.
Follow me."
He led the way to a room, part parlour and part study, and, as it
seemed, part armoury and harness-room, from the number of saddles and
bridles, guns, hunting-knives, and such like matters which covered the
walls and floor.
Two or three dogs lay before the small wood-fire which burned on the
hearth, and a big cat was nursing her brood of kittens in the great
leather-covered arm-chair.
Colonel von Falkenstein cleared a chair fur Philip and took another for
himself—not the arm-chair, however. Philip took the seat offered him,
and waited to be spoken to.
"And so you are Reinhart's son?" said the colonel, after he had read
over Count Maurice's note more than once. "On my word, you are a fine
young fellow, and I wish I had better news for you of your father. He
was a good, faithful, honest man, and the best smith I ever saw."
Philip saw that the old gentleman was anxious to soften bad news; and
though he would rather have heard it in the shortest, bluntest words in
which it could be put, he felt the kindness intended.
"My poor father is dead, then?" said he.
"I cannot but fear so, my lad. He was sent on secret service—as a spy,
in short—into the country down the bay—West Jersey, they call it. It
was through no good-will of mine, I assure you. But they sent him. He
put off in a boat from the fort down the river, and that was the last
seen of him, but there was a terrible thunder-storm the next night, and
two or three days after, the boat, leaky and broken, was found floating
upside down in the bay. Your father's watch-coat was found entangled in
the thwarts; and though, of course, there is not absolute certainty,
I fear there is little doubt that he perished in the storm. He was a
good, brave Christian man, and died in the discharge of his duty, if
that is any comfort to you.—There! be a man, my poor boy."
"It is a comfort, Your Excellency," said Philip as soon as he could
speak. "Captain Burger told my mother that my father had deserted to
avoid punishment."
"Burger is a hound!" said Von Falkenstein, so angrily that the cat
looked up and uttered a startled remonstrance. "He has not so much
manhood about him as this dog. No, Philip Reinhart, your father died
as he had lived—like a soldier and a Christian; and it is not always
easy to be both, I can tell you. Many a time I have seen him sitting
on the ground or a stone reading his Bible when the other men would be
drinking or at dice. It was a shame to send him on such an errand, and
never would have happened but for his folly in spending so much time
learning English. But we all have our follies."
Philip rose to go.
"Oh, you must not leave me so soon," said the old gentleman. "You are
not fit to travel, and it grows late. How did you come hither?"
"On horseback, Your Excellency, as far as the village."
"And you left your horse at the inn, eh?"
Philip assented.
Colonel von Falkenstein opened the door and found Philip's first
acquaintance standing conveniently near the door—in fact, somewhat
suspiciously so.
"Eavesdropping, eh?" said the colonel.
"I was only waiting to show the young man out, Your Excellency."
"Oh! Well, to reward your diligence, you may send Martin hither, and
then go down to the stable and tell one of the men to go to the inn
and ask for a horse belonging to—let me see—to Philip Reinhart. Tell
him to bring the horse up here and take good care of him. I would send
you, only I know you would be afraid of the horse. Do you understand,
or must I say it all over again?—The booby plagues my life out," he
added as the man disappeared in a hurry, "but you see, he is a widow's
son and I can't turn him away, though I have to rate him now and then.
Discipline must be upheld in such a family as mine, or all goes to
ruin.—There! Is that gray kitten playing with my seals again? I will
have them all drowned to-morrow. Cats are always torments."
So saying, he lifted the small offender very gently from his
writing-table, stroked it till it purred loudly, and then restored it
to the side of its mother, where it remained for about the space of a
flash of lightning.
Martin now made his appearance, a tall, gray-headed man like his
master, with the scar of a fearful sabre-cut making his face more grim
than it was by nature.
"Oh, here you are! Martin, you remember Reinhart the smith, eh? Well,
this is his son come to ask news of his father.—And why does every
widow and orphan in the country come to me for news of their friends?"
cried the old man, angrily. "Can I help people being killed when they
go in war?"
Apparently, Martin did not think this riddle capable of a solution, for
he remained at "attention," and said never a word.
"Well, well!—Philip Reinhart, this man is an old comrade of your
father's, and loved him well. He can tell you all about him.—Martin,
take him with you and make him comfortable, and see that the men take
care of his horse. You have a good horse, eh? You would make a famous
trooper yourself; would he not, Martin?"
"Too light," said Martin.
"Nonsense! You think every one too light who is not as big as your
master or yourself—Eh! What's this?" as the irrepressible gray kitten
came swarming up his back as if he had been a tree. "These torments of
cats! I will have them all drowned to-morrow."
"I can drown them to-night if Your Excellency desires," said Martin.
"No, no! You have enough to do; and besides, why should you hurt the
little innocent things?" answered his master, hastily and somewhat
angrily. "What harm have they done you, that you are in such a hurry to
kill them?"
Martin smiled grimly, but made no reply.
"There! Go now with Martin, and don't grieve too much, and tell your
mother not to grieve too much. Your father was a brave soldier and a
good Christian, and—and the best smith I ever saw; and doubtless she
will meet him in heaven," said the colonel, mixing up his words rather
oddly in his sincere desire to console Philip. "She is poorly off, eh?
A little ready money, now—"
"Oh no, Your Excellency; we are well-to-do," answered Philip, somewhat
hastily, as the colonel put his hand in his pocket. "I thank you for
the thought; but, so far as that goes, we need nothing."
"That is well; I am glad to hear it," answered the colonel. "That
isn't as bad as if she did not know where to turn for a meal for her
children.—There, Martin!"—suddenly changing the subject. "Somebody has
broken the cat's basin again. I must have a wooden one. See and provide
one."
Philip resolved in his mind that the colonel should have such a wooden
basin as never lady-cat rejoiced in before. He made his bow, and
followed Martin to his own apartment—a snug room in a tower of the old
castle-like pile, in much better order than his master's.
"There! Sit down, sit down!" said Martin, making Philip comfortable.
"We will have our supper here, and then we can talk in peace. I have a
good deal to say to you."
The supper was produced, and a savoury one it was, but Philip's heart
was too full for him to eat. Now that the last glimmering spark of hope
was put out, he knew how carefully he had cherished it.
"And so you came all the way over here to get news of your father, eh?"
said Martin, after he had lighted his pipe.
"And only to hear that there is no more hope of seeing him alive,"
said Philip, sadly. "Only that certainty is better for my mother than
suspense, I might have saved my journey. We shall never see my father
again till the sea gives up its dead."
"I am not so sure of that," said Martin.
Philip looked at him in surprise.
"One does not tell all one knows even when he has Von Falkenstein for a
master," continued Martin.
He took a few more pulls at his pipe, and then added, "I don't think it
by any means certain that your father is dead."
Philip started from his chair.
"Sit down, sit down!" said the old man. "I will tell you all I know,
and then you can judge for yourself how much to believe. There was
a man named Dandy who used to sell eggs, butter, and cheese in the
British and Hessian camp while we were in Philadelphia. He was what
they call a Tory, and a great scamp, like most of them. His neighbours
found him out, so he had to leave his home, and he became a regular
camp-follower. I saw him down at Yorktown, where we surrendered to
the Yankees. Ah! They made it hot for us, I can tell you. I never saw
hotter work."
Philip was on fire with impatience, but he prudently refrained from
interruption.
"Where was I?" continued Martin. "Yes, I know. I saw this Dandy. He was
from that very part of the country whither your father was sent, and he
told me that your father was taken prisoner, and would have been hung,
only he pretended to have saved the life of a child belonging to one
of the Yankee officers that was lost in the woods. That was the way
he put it, you see. It was plain he had a great spite at your father
for something, though I didn't find out what. Well, to make a long
story short, he said your father was released, and that he was living
somewhere in West Jersey—he told me the name of the town, but I can't
remember it—and was working as a smith and making plenty of money."
"Do you think it can be true?" said Philip, feeling as if he were in a
dream.
"I think so. I asked the man if he were sure, and he said yes, he had
seen those who knew him. I meant to see him again, but unluckily he
was mixed up in a drunken quarrel that very night—he had got to be a
terrible drunkard—and was knocked on the head, so that he never knew
anything afterward, and died in a few days. I never told the colonel,
for in the army one learns not to tell all one knows. It might by
chance have made your father trouble."
"And you think it can be true?" said Philip again.
"Oh yes; there is nothing improbable in it. Very likely he did save the
child, and they let him off in consequence. He couldn't have got back
to the army very well if he had wished, for we left Philadelphia about
that time, and the Yankees gave us lively times crossing Jersey."
"But the boat?"
"Well, that might have floated off when he landed. Anyhow, there is the
story."
"It is strange my father should not have written!" said Philip.
"He wrote before he left the army, I know, for he gave me the letter,
and I put it in the way to be sent. But half the letters were lost.
Afterward, he would not have many chances.—There! I must go and wait on
my master at supper. Sit you quiet here, or go out to walk if you like,
but come back hither. The colonel said you were to lodge here to-night."
"He is very kind, but it is not necessary," said Philip. "I have money
enough to stay at the inn."
"No, no! You must not think of it!" said Martin, hastily. "The colonel
would never forgive you, or me either."
Philip resigned himself. He was not sorry to be alone a while to
arrange his ideas.
When he again saw Martin, he plied him with questions: "Was Jersey a
large place? Were there many towns? How did one go to reach it?"
All of which questions Martin answered with the utmost good-humour.
"I see what is brewing in your young head, but don't be in a hurry.
Think well of it."
"I will," said Philip, but he had already made up his mind what to do.