Down in the valley, it had been raining all day long. What had been
hail and thunder up among the mountains, had turned to rain, and
occasional gleams of blue sky served to show that there was fair
weather above.
Toward evening, the storm cleared away. The queen, accompanied by the
ladies of her court, among whom Madame Gunther and Paula were now
included, was sitting in the large music-room, the doors of which were
open. Paula had been singing to the queen, for the first time, and, on
account of her embarrassment, Madame Gunther begged that she might not
be asked to sing again that day.
The relation between the queen and Madame Gunther was a peculiar one.
The queen was charmed with her sincerity and thoroughness, but she
found it difficult to accustom herself to the presence of one who was
so independent of her. She was, at one time, tempted to regard this as
pettiness, for, on the very day that Madame Gunther had accepted the
breastpin, she had said to the queen: "Your Majesty, it will never do,
unless you accept a present from me in return," saying which, she gave
the queen a handsomely bound book, which a brother of hers, a physician
residing in America, had written, on the subject of slavery. The queen
accepted it with thanks, and Madame Gunther felt quite relieved,
although it frequently cost her an effort to translate, as it were, all
that she wished to say, in order to clothe it in the proper court
costume, for she took a pride in rejecting prescribed forms.
The queen inquired why they saw so little of the elder daughter, the
professor's widow. Madame Gunther replied that, as Bronnen and their
nephew were visiting them, and as there was much to look after in the
house, Cornelia had gladly assumed these duties. It always seemed like
a new truth to the queen, or like tidings from some strange world, to
find that the daily wants of life required special attention and did
not provide for themselves.
The weather exerted a depressing influence on the spirits of all. Here
in the country, and especially in this little dairy-farm, where they
missed many comforts, and where, on account of the small amount of
room, they were prevented from scattering and seeking various
diversions, the effects of the weather were all the more noticeable and
unpleasant.
Their delight in anticipation of the morrow was all the greater, as it
promised to be a bright day.
It was agreed that they should all meet, at dinner, near the second
waterfall, and that the king would join them there.
The king was in his cabinet, engaged with Bronnen. The new telegraph
was carrying many messages to and fro. Gunther, the intendant, Sixtus
and several other gentlemen were smoking their cigars and walking under
the drooping trees of the avenue, which the evening sun was now
lighting up with a thousand brilliant hues.
The ladies in the music-room maintained that the Alpine glow
(Alpenglühen) could be seen that day. They naturally expected to see it
daily, although it is an exceedingly rare phenomenon.
The night had come on, and the king was sitting at the card-table, with
Gunther and two of the gentlemen-in-waiting.
A servant came in and informed Gunther that there was a man outside
who wished to speak with him at once. Gunther gave his cards to the
ever-obliging intendant, and went out where, leaning on his great
Alpine staff, his broad-brimmed, crumpled hat in his hand, and his rug
thrown over him, stood the little pitchman. He kept his left hand in
his pocket, and when Gunther came up to him, he said:
"Here's a paper for you."
Gunther read the note, and then rubbed his eyes and passed his hand
across his face, as if to awaken himself.
"Who sent you?" he asked.
"I guess that'll tell you--our Irmgard."
Gunther started at the mention of the name, here before the very door,
when within sat the king and the queen--
He went up to the lamp in the corridor, and read the note again. There
it stood:
"Eberhard's daughter sends for Gunther."
This man, who had a right to boast that he was always calm and
composed, was obliged to support himself by the balusters, and it was
some time before he could utter a word. When he looked up, his glance
met that of the little pitchman.
"Who are you?" he asked, at last.
"I'm from the freehold farm. Walpurga's my niece--"
"Very well; go outside and wait for me. I'll be there directly."
The little pitchman went out, and Gunther summoned all his
self-command, in order to return to the card-room to excuse himself,
and say that he had been summoned to the bedside of one who was
dangerously ill. He scarcely knew how he could, without betraying
his emotion, mention this to those who were so directly concerned,
but he hoped to do so, nevertheless.
At that moment, he fortunately met Paula and Bronnen, who had been
walking in the garden and were just about to enter the house.
"The very thing!" exclaimed Gunther, addressing them. "Paula, send me
my hat; and you, dear Bronnen, present my excuses to their majesties,
and tell them I am required instantly, by one who is dangerously ill.
Pray do this without exciting attention; and, Paula, don't mention it
to your mother until you're on the way home. I shall be gone all
night."
"Can't Dr. Sixtus go?" asked Bronnen.
"No. Pray ask me no more. I shall be home early to-morrow morning; but
if I don't come, I will meet you by the waterfall, at dinner-time."
Bronnen and Paula went into the house, and, a few moments later, a
lackey brought Gunther his hat.
Gunther hurried off with the little pitchman. Only once did he turn
back to look at the brilliantly lighted windows, and to think of those
who were sitting within, void of care and foreboding naught. How
startled they would be if they had heard the tidings that affected him
so powerfully. On the way to his house, he had but little to say to the
little pitchman. He did not care to question him more closely, for he
feared lest some answer might be overheard, and thus prematurely betray
the secret. He was still, in his own mind, endeavoring to devise some
plan by which all could be arranged and adjusted.
It was not until they drew near the house, that Gunther asked:
"What ails the patient? What does she complain of?"
"She don't complain of anything. She's got a hot fever, and she has
been coughing for a long time."
"Has she her perfect senses?"
"Just the same as ever; but Gundel, my daughter, says she sometimes
calls out in her sleep: 'Victory!'"
"Just wait here," said Gunther, when they reached the house. "I'll send
you something to eat and drink; but tell no one who sent you here."
Cornelia was sitting near the lamp and reading to her blind cousin. He
had only told her of the terrors of the hailstorm; his heart-sufferings
he had kept to himself. He had been sleeping nearly all day, and now
felt refreshed. Cornelia was alarmed when she saw her father, but he
soon quieted her. His medicine-chest and some well-sealed packages of
refreshing and strengthening food, were soon in readiness, and were
packed upon the mule. Gunther rode off, the little pitchman walking
by his side. The face of the latter was scarcely visible, for his
broad-brimmed hat had not yet recovered from the effects of yesterday's
storm. It was not until they had left the town behind them, that
Gunther asked:
"How far have we to go?"
"It takes three hours on foot, but on horseback it's a full hour more."
When they entered the forest, Gunther halted and said:
"Come near. So you are Walpurga's uncle?"
"To be sure. I'm her mother's own and only brother, for the two others
died young."
"What do you call the sick girl?"
"Irmgard; that's her name."
"And how long has she been with you?"
"Ever since Hansei bought the farm. She came with us then from the
lake. She was sick, and they say she's a little bit out of her mind;
but I don't believe a word of it. She's got her right senses; rather
too much than too little."
"And don't you know her family name?" asked Gunther.
"I never asked," and the little pitchman, with great volubility, went
on to tell all he knew of Irmgard's life and how, for years, she had
worn a bandage on her forehead, and had never taken it off until she
had gone up to the mountain meadow. He described her life so touchingly
that Gunther stopped and, taking the old man by the hand, said:
"You're a good man."
Uncle Peter did not dispute this, but maintained that, in all the
world, there was no one so good as Irmgard.
Rapid rivulets crossed their path in many places, and the little
pitchman told Gunther of the storm of the previous night; how terrible
it is when, all of a sudden, the air seems filled with stones that
pound away at one, and how he had helped the blind man, and also what
had been promised him. He would often take hold of the mule's bridle
and guide it down some steep descent, through a brook and then up the
hill again.
"You must have gone through a good deal yourself, Doctor," said the
little pitchman. He would have liked his companion to entertain him by
the way. He thought that one sitting on the mule could talk far more
comfortably than he who was walking by his side. He could feel it in
his chest that to talk while going up hill, was no easy matter. As if
divining this, Gunther alighted when they reached a level place, and
made the little pitchman mount. After much persuasion, Uncle Peter at
last consented and got up; but as soon as they began to ascend again,
he dismounted, and insisted on Gunther's riding.
"If our Irmgard wants to leave us now," said the little pitchman, "I'd
willingly give her up to you, Doctor. She can play the zither
splendidly, and when she's well again, you can teach her anything.
Everything comes easy to her. But I hope she'll stay with us. She's shy
and doesn't like to go among people."
It seemed as if he had divined Gunther's very thoughts, for the doctor
had been asking himself how he could take Irma to his house, and yet
keep the court ignorant of her existence. In his mind's eye, he already
saw her sitting beside his wife and Cornelia, and he felt that he had
gained a daughter who would fill Paula's place.
It was dark in the forest and the stars were gleaming overhead. "It's
past midnight," said the little pitchman, when they reached the crest
of a projecting hill. "The moon's coming up over there."
Gunther looked back and saw the half-moon rising and looking like a
ruin suspended in the vast firmament.
"There's some of our cows already," said the little pitchman, and his
voice grew brighter. "That's Blackbird, with the ding-dong bell. She
always strays furthest of all; but we'll be home in less than half an
hour, at any rate."
They went on in silence, and at last reached the hut. A ray of light
shone through the opening in the closed window-shutter.
Gunther entered.
"I'll go in first and tell her the gentleman's here," said the little
pitchman, softly.
Gunther assented.
He soon came out again and said:
"She's asleep, but her cheeks are as red as fire, and Gundel says that
she often called out, in her sleep: 'Father!' and sometimes, 'Victory.'
She must be having pleasant dreams."
Gunther entered the cottage. .
At the sight of Irma he seemed as if paralyzed. "What's that?" he asked
the little pitchman, when the kid at Irma's feet raised its head and
stared at him.
"It's a little chamois kid that I found yesterday. She's very fond of
it," answered the little pitchman in a whisper.
Gunther requested the little pitchman and Gundel to leave the room, and
then sat down silently at Irma's bedside. He felt her pulse and touched
her forehead, and the little pitchman, who had lingered in the room,
asked: "How is she?"
Gunther shrugged his shoulders and beckoned him to go out.
The little pitchman hurried up to the hay-loft, awakened Franz, and
ordered him to hurry down to his master and mistress and tell them to
come up directly, for Irmgard was very sick.
He lay down on the hay, feeling as if every bone in his body were
broken. He had never before been so tired, but he could neither rest
nor sleep, and was soon standing in front of the cottage, listening at
the window.
Meanwhile, Gunther remained with the patient. She moved now and then,
but did not open her eyes. The kid at her feet was also sleeping again.
Gunther had removed the light from the room, and now sat in the dark.
"The day is coming, let me see the daylight!" cried Irma, suddenly
starting up.
A gray streak of light fell through the opening in the shutter.
"Let me see the daylight," said Irma again, and the little pitchman
outside opened the shutters. A flood of light poured into the chamber.
A radiant glow passed over Irma's countenance. She stretched out both
hands to Gunther. He clasped them, and she kissed his hands with her
feverish lips.
"You have achieved great results," said Gunther. "You have shown a
power that I cannot but admire. Hold fast to it."
"I thank you! Through you, my father returns to me. Lay your hand upon
my forehead."
"I place my hand upon your forehead, and in your father's spirit I
bless you, and with this kiss I kiss away all your burdens. You are
free!"
Irma lay there quietly, and Gunther's hand lay on her brow, while, out
of doors, the rosy tint of morn ascended higher and higher, and at last
the light flooded the room with its golden glow.
Gunther went out and brought a tonic draught for Irma. It revived and
refreshed her.
"I know that I am about to die," she said in a clear voice, "and I am
happy that I have lived in consciousness and can die in consciousness."
She gave her journal to Gunther and told him that the wish she had
there expressed, in relation to her place of burial, need not be
regarded; that the uncle knew which had been her favorite spot, and
that she wished to be buried there, with nothing to mark her grave.
Gunther had, before this, said that he had held many a dying hand in
his--he had never sat by a death-bed like that of Irma's.