Irma now spent but a small portion of the day at the workbench. Her
work had become even more irksome than at first. Her eye was constantly
fixed on the vast and extended mountain prospect, toward which she
would ever return from her task with added zest.
The little pitchman, who was quite diplomatic in his way, begged Irma
to go with him while he went out to hunt plants and roots, for he said
that he was old and did not know but what he might sometime lose his
footing, and it would, in that case, be well to have some one with him
who could go for help.
After that, Irma spent the greater part of the day with the little
pitchman, wandering through the forest and over hill and dale. Her
greatest delight was whenever they reached the spot where the brook
arose. It flowed smoothly from a dark, rocky cavern and then boldly
galloped down the hill, striking against fragments of rock by the way,
now gliding over them, now forcing its way below them, until it reached
the first valley, where it formed a basin encircled by tall, silver
fir-trees. Thence it flowed through the table-land and, softly
murmuring, glided down over the second mountain into the valley below.
The little pitchman plainly saw how much Irma liked to be here. He even
thought that he had once heard her sing, and that her voice had been
audible above the rushing and roaring of the water, and it was a
strange coincidence that most of the herbs of which he was in search
could be found in the neighborhood. Now and then, he was fortunate
enough to discover a bird's nest, and would show it to Irma, who was as
delighted with it as though she were a little child. The animals here
seemed as yet to be without fear of man, and the little pitchman
maintained that the reason the little birds didn't fly away when Irma
looked at them, was because she had such kindly eyes. They flew about
her as if she were an old friend, and the mother bird in the nest
looked at her affectionately, and did not take wing.
Thus Irma would spend whole afternoons, sitting by the spring and,
scarcely conscious of what she was doing, would, now and then, throw
some flower which she had plucked into the brook.
The brook flowed through the town in which Gunther lived. A beautiful
boy was sitting on its banks, and a red-haired servant in livery was by
his side.
The boy ordered the servant to fish out a beautiful flower that was
floating by. The servant clambered down the steep bank and, just as he
reached the edge of the stream, the boy threw a stone into the water,
so that it splashed, and the servant exclaimed: "My young master,
you've behaved badly again!"
"Is he at his wild tricks again?" said a tall and handsome young man,
with a countenance that bore the marks of dissipation. "What are you
doing, Eberhard?"
The boy looked startled and the servant said:
"Nothing, sir. My young master and I were only having a little fun
together."
The young man took the boy by the hand and walked with him through the
meadow and toward a beautifully situated country-house, while Fitz, the
groom, followed. The man in front was Count Eberhard von Wildenort, and
the boy with him was his son.
Bruno had given strict orders that his boy should not go near the
water. He had a great dread of that element, for it had brought such
terrible misfortune upon his family. But, as if by some evil influence,
the boy was always drawn toward the wild stream, and Fitz, who always
let him have his own way, secretly abetted and accompanied him.
Bruno looked back, shook his finger at Fitz, and then entered the
garden of the country-house. His wife was there, sitting in a large
arm-chair. A little girl was playing on the gravel path, and a nurse
was carrying an infant in her arms. The matin bell was heard, and
presently the mother-in-law appeared at the garden gate. She was
followed by a servant who carried an embroidered cushion and a
prayer-book sparkling with jewels.
The baroness greeted her family with the calm and satisfied air of one
who had already fulfilled her highest duties. Bruno offered her his arm
and, Arabella following, they repaired to the breakfast table, which
had been set in the arbor.
"Dear me!" said the Baroness. "What shall we do with ourselves to-day?
It is lovely, and I don't think the weather will change. The apothecary
tells me there is a very pretty shepherd's hut a few hours distant from
here, the view from which must be exquisite. How would it be if we were
to send our servants up before us, to make arrangements for our dining
there?"
"Permit me, gracious mother-in-law," replied Bruno, timidly.
"Very well; make a suggestion! Don't leave everything to me. What have
you to propose in this deadly-lively solitude, where we are thrown upon
the odious privy councilor, and the female philistines of his family. I
beg of you, do propose something."
"In my humble opinion--"
"Don't be so long coming to the point!"
"I think it will be to your interest if I first go myself, to see
whether the roads are fair and to prevent you from being disappointed;
for, although theatrical shepherdesses are, as a rule, very charming,
they are apt to be great frights _au naturel_."
"Thanks! you're really amiable. When will you set out on your
reconnaissance?"
"To-day, if you desire it."
"He would like to get off and be a free, single man for one day," said
the smiling Baroness to her daughter. "Oh, I know him! Shall we give
him a day?" she asked roguishly.
"You're in a very good humor," replied Bruno. In spite of all her
biting remarks, he was always studiously polite toward her. She had
thrice paid his gaming and other debts, for Bruno had not yet received
his sister's fortune, as the body had not been found. It was not till
next year--that is, five years after her death--that he would be
allowed to take legal possession of it.
"Yes, dear Bruno," at last said Arabella, who was deeply pained by her
husband's position. "You'd better go by yourself. Leave Fitz here with
us. Eberhard has grown so used to him, that he doesn't care to play
with any one else."
Bruno repaired to the apothecary's, where he was informed that the
meadow belonged to the freeholder who lived at several hours' distance.
He started for the farm at once.
Walpurga was sitting by the window, and playing with the child in her
lap, when she saw a horseman approaching. She involuntarily raised her
hand to her eyes and leaned back, as if he were going to ride straight
over her.
She saw him dismount and saw Hansei greet him and lead the horse to the
stable; after that, Hansei and the stranger came into the room.
"God greet you, Count!" said Walpurga, composing herself and advancing
toward him. "How kind of you, to pay us a visit."
She extended her hand to Bruno, who went on twisting his mustache, and
did not offer his hand in return.
"Ah! it's you, is it? I didn't know that you were the mistress here.
And so this is the farm that you paid for with gold? You're shrewd, but
don't be alarmed. I shan't call you to account!"
Hansei observed that his wife was growing pale.
"Who is this man? Who is it that talks to you in this high and mighty
manner?" he asked, drawing himself up.
"Be quiet!" said Walpurga. "He is one of the court gentlemen and is
fond of joking."
"That's it, is it?" muttered Hansei. "I want to say a word to you,
sir--what may your name be?"
"Count Wildenort."
"Well then, Count, I didn't ask who you were, and I bade you and your
horse welcome. And now I'd like you to tell me what you want and leave
my wife alone. In my house and home, I allow no jokes that don't please
me, and if the king himself were to come and try a joke that I didn't
like, I'd put him out! No offense, but every one must say what he
thinks. Now, sir, take a seat."
Hansei put on his hat and pressed it down firmly, as if to show that he
was master here.
Bruno said, with a smile:
"You've a good husband, Walpurga."
"That'll do," said Hansei, interrupting him. "What do you wish, Count?"
"Nothing out of the way. They tell me you have a shepherd's hut on your
mountain meadow, and I hear it is the finest in all the Highlands."
"Yes, yes," said Hansei, grinning. "It isn't so bad and it's very
nicely situated; but I won't sell it."
"I don't want to buy it. All I want is to spend the day up there."
"Why, how do you mean?"
"Are there good roads leading to it, and is the place clean? Is there a
chance of coming back without bringing a herd along on one's body?"
"You're right, Walpurga, he's quite funny," whispered Hansei to his
wife, and then, turning to Bruno, he said:
"The roads are good, and if you don't mind going an hour's distance out
of the way, you can ride almost to the very spot. I can show you the
way up if you wish it."
"Certainly; my wife and mother-in-law would like to see the place."
Walpurga was alarmed at the danger that threatened Irma, but quickly
collecting herself she said, as if jesting:
"No, Count; women can't go up there. Such as we are can do it, of
course; but, even then, we have to turn our petticoats into breeches."
She laughed heartily, and Bruno laughed, too. He imagined his
mother-in-law in this costume. She had tried many in her life, but
never such an one.
The only object of his errand had been to enable him, under the pretext
of having received authentic information, to dissuade his mother-in-law
from her plan which, if carried out, would have subjected him to a day
of bitter slavery. He well knew that nothing would be right, and that
he would be obliged to swallow her reproaches and scoldings, just as if
it were his fault that they chanced now upon a swamp, now upon a hill,
and that while, at the shepherd's hut, they might feed their eyes on
mountains of ice, they could not have vanilla ices with which to
satisfy the palate. He knew all about these pleasure-parties, at which
he generally felt as if he must die of vexation. Walpurga found an
opportunity to tell her husband to use all the means in his power to
dissuade the count from visiting their mountain meadow. And so when
Hansei went out into the stable with the count, who was looking for his
horse, he laughed till he showed every tooth in his head while he said:
"There's a relation of ours up there, and she's a little bit out of her
mind."
Walpurga also came out into the stable, for she feared that her husband
might betray something. Bruno asked her whether she knew what had
become of her friend.
Walpurga shook her head and wept.
"Yes," said she, "I can well say no one on this earth suffered more for
her sake than I did."
She wept so bitterly that Bruno offered to console her.
At last he left.
It was several days before Walpurga recovered from the effects of her
fright. Again and again, it seemed to her that it might be better if
Irma were found out, for perhaps she was quite ill and might die before
her time. But if she were discovered, it would kill her at once. This
accounted for her uneasiness, while at the hut on the previous Sunday,
and for her having enjoined the greatest caution on the uncle. She was
constantly pursued by the thought that there would soon be an end to it
all. If one only knew how and what the end would be, and whether
anything could be done. She could do nothing. All she could do was to
let what would happen.