A little girl was sleeping upon a stool by the stove. Severa

Produced by Charles Bowen, page scans provided by Google Books

Transcriber's Notes:

1. Page scan source:

http://books.google.com/books?id=m1UpAAAAYAAJ&pg

2. The are approximately 96 decorative images in this book which

are not indicated in this text version.

At the Ghost Hour

The House of the

UNBELIEVING

THOMAS

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF

PAUL HEYSE

BY

FRANCIS A. VAN SANTFORD

WITH DECORATIONS BY

ALICE C. MORSE

NEW YORK

DODD, MEAD & COMPANY

MDCCCXCIV

Copyright, 1894, by

DODD, MEAD & COMPANY.

THE HOUSE OF THE UNBELIEVING THOMAS

In a provincial town of northern Germany there is a street in which the

ancient, high-gabled houses bear, inscribed in Gothic letters, upon the

lintels of their doors or upon little sandstone tablets, such honorable

or fanciful names as "The Good Shepherd," "Noah's Dove," "The Palms of

Peace," "The Rose of Sharon," and underneath, the date of their

erection.

In former days this street had been one of the main arteries of the

city, whose staid, orthodox inhabitants coveted inward spiritual

illumination rather than the light and air which penetrate from

without. Since then new generations had arisen, fired with the spirit

of aggressive enlightenment, and the importance of these old families,

content with the stray sunbeams that made their way over the tall

roofs, had declined perceptibly. One by one, they had died off behind

their "Palms of Peace" and their "Roses of Sharon," and had made way

for the bustling children of the new era, whose light and cheerful

dwellings sprang up around the dingy old street.

From one of the houses, which had grown almost black under the storms

of three centuries, the street had received its name. Upon a block

of stone above the wide entrance there were cut, in letters so

weather-worn as to be scarcely legible, these words: "The Unbelieving

Thomas, 1534." From this, the street had been christened Thomas Lane--a

title which it still bears, though, only in official documents and on

the map of the city. In common parlance it had been known for more than

fifty years as "Ghosts' Lane"--again because of that same ancient

building which was responsible for its correct name. For every one knew

that the house of "The Unbelieving Thomas" was haunted; and even the

most cold-blooded free-thinkers of the town could not escape a slight

shiver when business forced them to tread the neglected pavement of

this street.

Why this old three-storied structure, so firm despite its great age,

had been inhabited all these years only by poor unabsolved souls, no

one could tell. With one man who had had the hardihood to purchase the

house, things had turned out badly enough. A Jew, to whom the great,

empty rooms seemed suitable for a warehouse, had been established there

less than two years, when one morning he was found with a bit of silk

stuff twisted about his neck, hanging from the crosspiece of a window

in the largest room. And it subsequently became evident that Fortune

had turned her back upon this man, once prosperous and well-to-do, and

there was nothing for him but to steal out of the world and leave his

accumulation of debts behind him.

Nothing save the house itself and its dusty furnishings remained to the

creditors; and as no purchaser appeared, they were forced to vent their

chagrin in fierce glances at the gray, weather-beaten sign over the

door, upon which, in huge black lettering, was the name of the firm:

"Commission and Dispatch House of Moritz Feigenbaum."

Now, although the whole house was so securely bolted and barred that it

would have been impossible for a thief to carry anything out of it, the

court deemed it necessary to provide for some oversight of the place,

so that no lovers of darkness, counterfeiters or bands of dynamiters

should take refuge there. Fortunately, there happened to be a poor

cobbler, whose little house had been destroyed by a flood, and who

declared himself willing to undertake the duties of janitor. This

valiant person--Wenzel Kospoth by name, an emigrant from Bohemia--took

possession of the porter's room by the entrance without further delay,

regarding this free shelter as a sufficient recompense for his

services, which were simple enough. He had to open the great, black,

outer door each morning, and to close it again at night; and now and

then he took a survey of the three stories to see that no bulging wall

threatened the downfall of the whole. The entire day he was free to

devote to his small custom, which remained true to him, even in the

haunted house; although certain anxious good wives had scruples about

venturing across the threshold to get a pair of defective boots mended

in this unwholesome atmosphere.

For, in fact, honest Wenzel Kospoth, with his bony, grizzled face and

small, black eyes, deep-set under their bushy brows, did not seem quite

canny to his new neighbors, hardened though they were to the traditions

of the street.

As he took but little sleep, they could often see him, through the

window of the ground floor, squatted on his low stool, his lank arms,

in their shirt-sleeves, braced upon his knees, and lying open on his

leather apron a large, old-time book, in which he would read

industriously until long after midnight, by the light of his little

lamp. It was only an old Bohemian Bible, which he could now understand

with difficulty, for he had crossed the German border when only a lad.

Those who spied upon him, however, regarded the copper-bound volume as

a book of magic, and believed nothing less than that this singular

stranger with the foreign name had taken the post of janitor in the

haunted house that he might conduct there, undisturbed, his magical

intercourse with evil spirits.

Wenzel Kospoth, when told of this report, laughed in his gray beard,

and muttered something in Bohemian, which might have meant either yes

or no. In his inmost soul he had a contempt for the stupid Germans, and

fancied that this very Bible reading made him greatly their superior;

so that, far from dispelling their superstitions, he seized upon an

accidental opportunity to strengthen them.

An old acquaintance of his whom he had met in his Sunday walks to a

neighboring village had come to want through no fault of her own. She

was a little woman of about forty, who, though brought up in town, had,

when quite young, married a peasant's son--a drunkard, as it proved. He

had squandered all her small savings, and dying suddenly, had left her

with a six-year-old child. As she was clever at sewing, the young widow

earned many a pretty groschen as village tailoress. But, unfortunately,

her good heart led her to apply her skill not only to the needs of the

outer, but to those of the inner man as well, and to dispose of her

little store of recipes for all possible ailments in return for a

trifling compensation. In this way she soon gained considerable

patronage and, at the same time, with several of the more narrow-minded

villagers, the reputation of being mistress of the black art. And when

her little daughter had blossomed into a trim young maiden, with

sparkling black eyes and waving yellow braids, who turned the heads of

the village lads as she walked with her mother to church, on Sundays

and feast days, the two came to be looked upon as a pair of

unmistakable witches by the spiteful old women of the village, and by

the younger ones whose sweethearts had become a trifle less devoted.

The two innocent souls endured all this patiently until one day an

influential peasant in whose stalls several cows had suddenly died, at

the instigation of his wicked wife, burst into Frau Cordula's house,

and hurling a volley of reproaches upon her as the author of his

misfortune, delivered her such a heavy blow with his fist that from

that day she was a cripple and could only move about with difficulty

upon tottering feet.

The base miscreant departed triumphant; but his deed was the beginning

of a series of tribulations--the fruit of woman's hate and envy--until

the poor woman realized that she must seek safety behind the walls of a

town if she would not endanger her own life and that of her child among

these superstitious people.

She had only one acquaintance in the town, Wenzel Kospoth; and to him

she sent letter asking whether he knew of some small lodging where she

and her daughter could find a refuge and earn their bite of bread

hidden from curious eyes.

Now, behind the haunted house was a gloomy little court in which stood

a low stable, unused since the horses of Moritz Feigenbaum were sold.

Above the stable the coachman and errand boy had lived in two large,

low rooms, with a windowless loft adjoining, where hay and oats had

been stored. A coach-house shut in the remainder of the court, in the

centre of which a chestnut-tree, long dead, lifted its dark, leafless

branches, where a flock of tumultuous sparrows bustled noisily all the

day long.

These quarters were not calculated to allure tenants who were partial

to light and air; and even the poor and unhoused would not risk an

encounter with the ghost of the last inmate. So the mice held their

revels undisturbed and feasted royally upon the oats in the granary.

But the cobbler when he had received Frau Cordula's message thought at

once how excellently these lodgings were adapted for his friend. His

request to the authorities that two shelterless women, for whose

character he could vouch, be allowed to occupy the lodgings in the

court at a trifling rental was granted; and one morning he set out for

the village to assist the mother and daughter in their removal.

The two poor persecuted souls were glad to avail themselves of the

refuge under Wenzel Kospoth's roof, despite its unsavory reputation. A

wagon was loaded with their bedding and furniture. Upon a chest sat

Frau Cordula, Gundula hovered near her, while the dark-looking

Bohemian, who drove the horses himself, cracked his whip so vigorously

that the assembled village population, which would have accompanied the

exodus of the witch by caterwaulings, dared give rent to no more

disrespectful noises than a few whistles.

Their entry into Thomas Lane was made quietly, though the report had

spread in the neighborhood that a witch from the country was about to

move into the haunted house. A crowd had assembled before the closed

entrance; but a look somewhat like disappointment passed over their

gaping faces when the young girl sprang down from the wagon and the

older woman, with Kospoth's help, descended carefully from her high

seat. They fancied the witch would have been older and more gruesome;

and Gundelchen, with her laughing eyes and yellow braids, under the

peasant's head-dress, excited almost a feeling of regret that the

peaceful sleep of these two women was to be disturbed by nocturnal

apparitions.

The girl's smile faded when she mounted the narrow stairs and cast her

first look around. Their cottage had been no fairy bower, it is true;

but the sunlight had shone into it, and green gardens and fields lay

all about it. When, however, she saw her little mother sink down with a

heavy sigh upon the dusty floor, she quickly recovered herself,

threw her arms about the poor woman and carried her to a bench near

the window where she could watch the sparrows in the top of the

chestnut-tree. Then she began to talk so cheerfully that the mother

took heart at last and only sighed softly now and then, as with tender

eyes she watched the child busied in arranging the furniture in their

new home.

By the next day the two rooms looked quite habitable. The young girl

had gone early to the market and bought two cheap pots of flowers; she

had brushed away the dust, had scrubbed the floors, and hung fresh

curtains at the square windows before it was time to make the soup upon

the little stove in the corner. When Wenzel Kospoth came in at noon to

ask how it fared with his fellow-tenants, his eyes opened wide with

astonishment to find everything so neat and comfortable. He must needs

stop for dinner, and found the frugal meal far more toothsome than the

food which a neighbor had been wont to serve him in his shop. So it

came about that the cobbler dined with them regularly, and the small

sum which he paid helped them with the rent.

That she could not hope for much custom in her new home, the sensible

woman knew well enough. She understood only peasant fashions; and for

her medicinal skill there was no demand. In her despondency, she almost

regretted that she had availed herself of Master Kospoth's offer. But

here Gundula came to her mother's rescue. She had inherited her

cleverness in womanly handiwork; and she soon apprenticed herself to a

dressmaker, under whom she took great pains to learn the city fashions.

She showed herself so quick and skillful that after a few months she

was employed in the houses of well-to-do families.

In time, many a piece of work was entrusted to her to finish. These she

took home to her mother, who became once more cheerful, now that her

hands were no longer idle; and when, at the end of the year, she could

count a pretty little sum laid by in her stocking, she forgave the

stupid peasants whose persecutions had made her life so wretched.

Yet even here, in the city, the reputation of holding converse with

evil spirits clung to her; and inquisitive school-boys, who had once,

goaded by insatiable curiosity, ventured through the doorway as far as

the entrance to the court, pointed to the four small windows above the

stable, with childish awe, and whispered in each other's ears all

manner of goblin-tales of the Blockenberg and the Devil's dances. The

most impudent among them finally took courage, called with a loud, but

trembling voice: "Old witch! Old witch!" in the quiet court, and threw

a stone against the stable-door; whereupon the whole troop scattered in

a hasty flight, while even the sparrows, terrified by the unwonted

clamor, flew out from the dry branches of the chestnut with shrill

cries.

That the witch remained invisible, added not a little to the

superstitious dread in which she was held. Her child, however, was

regarded by the neighbors with mingled sympathy and admiration. They

could not understand how she kept her red cheeks and laughing eyes amid

such depressing surroundings; they must say, that any one who had at

his baptism renounced the devil and all his works, could hardly bring

himself to marry a girl out of this haunted house. Yet they watched the

graceful little figure as long as they could see her hat-ribbon wave in

the wind, and her short skirt blow about her trim ankles.

So far, all seemed orderly and natural in the house of "The Unbelieving

Thomas," and the report of ghostly rendezvous there seemed ill-founded.

But the narrator of this true story is now, at last, forced to the

confession that, in the closest proximity to these two innocent beings,

there was installed a ghost, pure and simple, of whose presence neither

the occupants of the house nor the dwellers in that street had the

slightest intimation.

It is averred that the souls of the dead, when they leave their bodies,

do not pass directly to heaven or hell; but, according to the Romish

belief, into purgatory, there to await the day of judgment and the

resurrection of the body; or, according to the Protestant confession,

into an intermediate state, where they bide in a condition of uncertain

expectancy, like that of earthly travelers in a way station. In this

supernal region there prevails a certain monotony of existence

unrelieved even by the arrival of newly-released souls who, for the

most part, bear upon their pallid features the sorrowful trace of a

reluctant parting.

It is true that spirits of the higher order, those who while yet upon

earth were raised above the sordid misery of life, and who viewed all

occurrences in the light of eternity, soon find their way about in the

gray twilight of this aerial realm, and enjoy meeting a kindred soul

now and then among the noiseless throng of disembodied spirits, and

holding converse with those whom they had come to revere for their

virtuous deeds during their earthly life. So that here, where perfect

equality and universal brotherhood are generally supposed to hold sway,

there is a line of distinction between the great and small, to which no

one offers the least objection. For, as no outward advantage is

attached to the greater prestige which the nobler souls enjoy, no one

finds cause for envy in the exalted intercourse with which, their hours

are filled; while the great majority long ardently for the coarser

pleasures of their past life.

In this painless intermediate state, the more worthy or distinguished

souls are pursued by only one annoyance, namely, the ever-increasing

curiosity of those yet living upon earth, who delight to summon the

spirits of great kings, sages and artists to compulsory interviews.

This disgraceful amusement has been the fashion at intervals from time

immemorial, as when, for example, the Witch of Endor summoned the

spirit of the high priest Samuel to appear before Saul. But, in our own

day, the inquisitive practice of drawing the veil from the mysteries of

the other world has spread through a very wide circle, and no name,

sounded down from past centuries, is too venerable for its owner to be

assailed with questions through the medium of some tipping-table or

hysterical young woman; or even to be constrained to appear personally

in the transparent guise of his so-called astral body.

The aristocracy of the intermediate kingdom, after they had borne with

this presumption for some time, at last bethought themselves of an

innocent expedient which would secure them from further intrusion. They

made inquiry among the ghostly masses whether there were any who would

be willing to serve as their representatives in case of such demands,

and to answer impertinent questions as seemed to them proper.

Now, as many of those who in life had known only selfish pleasures were

already so wearied of this spiritual existence that they were ready to

jump out of their skin (if they had had a skin), nothing could be more

welcome than this proposition to mingle once more in mundane affairs,

and to amuse themselves for a few hours with the fashionable play of

question and answer.

That they had scant knowledge of the affairs of their famous associates

disturbed them as little as it did those whom they were to represent.

For it soon became evident that the questioners at tapping-tables and

dark seances were in nowise offended by foolish answers, and received

the most palpable nonsense which was whispered to them in the

communications of spirits as profound, superhuman wisdom, which they

interpreted according to their wishes. It is easy to pipe for him who

loves to dance; and he who is determined to hold converse with Julius

Caesar, Plato or Beethoven, will hear, in the stammering utterances of

some cartman with whom he has in some mysterious way put himself _en

rapport_, words of the sublimest import.

Several years ago, the town in which the scene of this story is laid

was attacked with the fever of spiritualism. At first, people were

content to move tables and produce rappings, but by degrees they grew

ambitious for a more exalted mode of spiritual intercourse; and two

mediums, with their hypnotic subjects, made their entry into town, so

that hardly a night passed without some ghostly doings--and that, too,

in the homes of the best and most cultured families.

To satisfy the increasing demand, it was decided to establish two of

the more robust spirits permanently in town, that they might be ready

at the lightest summons. Two candidates offered themselves at once for

the post--one, the spirit of a traveling wine-seller, the other, the

soul of a house-servant, who, it chanced, had been employed by the

burgomaster of the town, and thus was especially conversant with the

affairs of the inhabitants.

This somewhat dissimilar pair seemed qualified to meet all

requirements, and one fine evening they sallied forth. Johann Gruber,

the servant, proposed that they take up their quarters in the house of

"The Unbelieving Thomas;" for even spirits of coarser mould, becoming

accustomed to the stillness of the other world, avoid noisy districts

in this.

No more quiet sleeping-place for two sensitive shadows could be found

than the lofty, dark coach-house adjoining the stable. The door opening

on the court was always ajar, but the dusty floor was never trodden by

human foot. An ancient calash stood in the farthest corner, its

leathern portions so gnawed away by the rats that it had wasted into

the mere skeleton of a carriage.

As soon as Heinrich Mueller, the quondam mercantile traveler, beheld

this ruin, he declared his wish to become its exclusive possessor. With

a soft sigh, evoked by the recollection of his former merry

journeyings, he stretched his ethereal form comfortably upon the

cushions, from which the leather covering and horsehair had been eaten

away, leaving the quills of the feathers sticking through--a

circumstance which, unpleasant as it might have proved to an occupant

with flesh and bones, in nowise impaired the comfort of this spiritual

essence.

Johann Gruber, who in his lifetime had traveled much with his master,

found a large chest in another corner, the like of those he had so

often packed, and made himself comfortable therein; for upon this first

night no seance was in progress.

They soon found that their post was far from easy. Each had his

hands full of work. Here, he had to slip into some table and answer

the oddest questions; there, he must respond to some crafty or

self-deceived medium, or if it were desired, materialize--as the

technical term is--and personate this or that well-known individual to

gratify the pious curiosity of his surviving friends.

These nightly labors were so fatiguing to both that when they returned

to their quarters, and without waiting even to exchange "good-night,"

slipped into their corners to sleep, they wished themselves back in the

state they had left. Indeed, they would probably have renounced the

service after a few weeks, had not the arrival of Frau Cordula and her

daughter altered the condition of affairs.

From the first, the wine-seller conceived so violent an attachment for

the fair, slender girl, that the thought of leaving her for the

loveless world of spirit was not to be tolerated. In his lifetime he

had been known as a ladies' man; and although he had exchanged his

carnal nature for a spiritual existence, he, like all poor souls who

hover over the spot where in life they have buried their treasure,

could not leave this child of earth, unresponsive though she must ever

be to his affection.

It happened, too, that Johann Gruber, passing one day by accident

through a retired street, met an old flame, in the person of the cook

who had served in the house of his master. As comely as ever, she

formed a new bond to connect him with this earthly sphere. From that

day he ceased to chaff his infatuated colleague. Instead of ridicule, a

fine ear could now have heard for many a night a duet of tender sighs

resounding from the walls of the dark coach-house, and accompanied by

the rustling and scrambling of the little mice.

This state of affairs had continued for nearly a year when, one

moonlight night, the spirit of Johann Gruber turned homeward from a

tiresome day's work. Sleepy though he was, he took a roundabout way,

past a certain house, on the ground floor of which his early love had

opened a tap-room. Possibly he was further attracted by the winey

fragrance which had, in his lifetime exerted a powerful influence over

him. He raised himself to a level with the window, the upper sash of

which was open, and perching himself upon the crosspiece, took a survey

of the room. A stout woman sat behind the bar, and nodded over her

knitting, from which she occasionally drew a needle and scratched her

frowsy head, yawning the while and rubbing her small, watery eyes.

A little girl was sleeping upon a stool by the stove. Several workmen

in their shirt-sleeves sat at a table playing cards. When any of them

trumped an ace, they rapped with their knuckles and the little one

sighed in her sleep.

The gallant ghost could not suppress a sigh as he reflected how fine it

would be if he were still living, and as landlord and husband could

scold the stout woman, and send the little Lisa early to bed. But fate

had decreed otherwise, and he descended from his lofty seat and flitted

homeward through the deserted streets to the haunted house.

Arrived at the gateway he peeped in a moment through the window of the

porter's room. There sat Wenzel Kospoth, still bending over his folio.

The glow from the lamp silvered his gray head; but his small eyes were

closed, so that it was uncertain whether he were napping, or sunk in

deep thought. Johann Gruber shrugged his shoulders. He could not endure

the valiant old man, because other people regarded him as a magician,

and he calmly acquiesced; whereas Johann knew that this attributed

power over the spirits of hell was clearly a swindle. His colleague,

too, disliked the cobbler, and sometimes threatened to do him harm,

indebted though they were to him for their unlighted quarters.

The night wanderer now sought the crevice in the old house-door through

which he was accustomed to slip in. But to-night, finding an obstacle,

he noticed, for the first, that he was still in the materialized

condition in which he had been forced to show himself at the medium's

command. Instantly he stripped the garment from his shoulders, like a

paletot, saw it dissolve in thin air, and glided unimpeded through the

door and across the court.

"Good evening, Herr Mueller!" said he, in a whisper. "Have you turned in

already? Much work to-day?"

Out of the calash in the corner came back a faint echo, which trembled

as from inward vexation.

"How often must I tell you, stupid, to go to bed quietly and not

disturb well-bred people in their first sleep? You smell of bad liquor

again. Have the goodness to keep away from me and creep into your

chest!"

"Oho!" snarled the other, approaching his irate companion and settling

himself upon a shaft of the carriage. "The deuce take your fine

manners! You are no better than I--Spirit is Spirit, and you are on the

wrong track when you accuse me of drinking. You know very well we can

no longer pour down a draught behind our cravats, for we have no

cravats. No, Herr Mueller, what you smell is the pure, soul fragrance.

Your own is not exactly like violets, either. Why should it be, if it

savors of the deeds done in your lifetime? You understand? Take care

you don't go too far; for if it should come to blows--I have been a

match for more than one when I was at service at the inn of The Three

Lilies, and with such a fellow as you--"

"Be still, will you!" commanded the voice from the calash, rather

faintly. "You know I meant no harm; it is only because I am so wretched

in this dog's life of a professional ghost, and besides that, this

confounded love affair, and no rest at night--"

"Yes, indeed, I can well believe it!" sighed the other, easily

pacified. "You are even worse off than I, and not so much as a kiss

will all this bring you. It would be a good thing if you would put the

girl out of your mind. It's all nonsense, anyway."

A heavy sigh came from the black depths of the wagon frame.

"That you don't understand, I observe. When this maiden, decked with

all heavenly charms, crosses my path, I am like a poor moth that cannot

keep away from the lamp, although it does not go near it with the exact

intention of burning its wings. I often think the priests' invention is

not the real hell--as indeed we know; the true one is the suffering

which we incur by our earthly sins. More than one little goose of a

girl has cried her eyes out over me; a confoundedly handsome fellow I

was, with a pocketful of money. Then, out of sight was out of mind with

me; but now I am in for it. What I endure is heart-breaking. There is

no drinking to the oblivion of this soul-suffering."

He was silent, exhausted by this passionate outburst; and only a slight

whimper was audible from the corner. His sympathetic comrade had in the

meantime withdrawn to his chest. After a little, he said: "How

beautifully you express it all, Herr Mueller! Just so it goes with my

Rieka. In my lifetime I laughed when I heard them talk of everlasting

love. But there is something in it, after all. Now, if your Gundelchen

and my Rieka should come to us up yonder, perhaps we might continue our

courting. Perhaps, upon the last day--well, we must wait. In the

meantime, good-night! pleasant dreams!"

From the carriage in the corner came no answer--only a soft, ghost-like

snore. Grief seemed at last to have left the poor sinners to their

rest.

But the sleep of the two much-enduring ghosts was to be broken in upon

in a strange way that night.

In a little cafe by the market place two good friends and

school-fellows were celebrating their _Wiedersehen_ with several

bottles of Rhine wine. The one, a dignified young man of

four-and-twenty, had just returned from a neighboring university, with

the degree of Doctor of Medicine. Before accepting the proffered

position of assistant in the office of a distinguished physician, he

contemplated a year of travel. Following the promptings of his heart,

he visited first his native town; though all ties of kindred there had

been broken by the death of his parents.

A youthful attachment, formed in his gymnasium days and continued

through his student years, despite many breaks and reconciliations, was

rumored to be on the point of becoming an engagement. But as yet no

word had been spoken; and, indeed, even an exchange of letters had been

interdicted by the stern father. The young man had thought of her less

than usual this past year, but had excused himself on the ground of

absorbing study. Of his old companions, only one, a civil engineer, had

settled in the town. This good comrade insisted upon sharing his

bachelor quarters with his friend during his stay. They met at the

station, the newly-fledged doctor arriving by an evening train; and

midnight found them still exchanging experiences at the cafe whither

they had gone for supper.

"You are awaited with impatience, Philip," said the engineer. "Papa

Stadtrath asked me yesterday whether you did not intend to display

yourself in the full splendor of your new honors to your native town. I

answered evasively. You ought not to accept engagements at once, but

devote the first two or three days to rest. For, listen! You are

looking pale and nervous; the fatigues of your examination show plainly

upon your face."

That he had judged correctly of his friend's condition became evident

as soon as they left the cafe. They had drank but lightly; yet,

directly the young doctor found himself in the open air, his head swam,

he grew unsteady on his feet and began to talk so boisterously,

swinging his walking-stick against the windows as they went along, that

his friend, fearing that Philip might meet some acquaintance and

introduce himself anew in this disgraceful fashion, took a roundabout

way home, through Ghost Lane, where they were sure of being unobserved.

Locking his arm in that of his friend, he piloted him along, keeping in

the shadow of the aristocratic houses, past the "Good Shepherd,"

"Noah's Dove," and the "Rose of Sharon," in which no sound was heard

and from whose grated windows no light shone forth.

They had just reached the house of "The Unbelieving Thomas," when the

riotous young man stood suddenly still, shook himself loose from his

friend by a violent gesture, and declared that he was ready to

challenge all the spooky spirits of the lane--which he now, for the

first time, recognized. He proposed to thrust them through with the

weapons of science till they were frightened back into the nebulous

nothingness whence only the baldest superstition had suffered them to

creep forth. This should be his first service to his native town,

which, to its own shame, had tolerated this relic of Egyptian darkness,

or worse, of Medievalism, here in its midst, at the end of the

nineteenth century.

He struck a defiant attitude on the sidewalk, while with one arm he

brandished his stick against possible ghostly opponents and with the

other he warded off his friend. In this way he lost his balance and

fell against the house, striking his head so forcibly upon the sharp

edge of the door-post that a large jet of blood spurted instantly from

the wounded temple.

In great consternation his friend attempted to raise him and staunch

the wound with his handkerchief, while he called loudly for help. In

this last effort he was finally successful, for the narrow window of

the porter's room, directly over their heads, was flung open. In a few

words the engineer explained to Wenzel Kospoth what had happened. When

the trusty Bohemian opened the door and saw the wound by the light of

his candle, he shook his head. It would be impossible to convey the

young man, bleeding thus profusely, to his home, without giving

occasion for much talk. There was no comfortable place for him in his

stuffy shop; but it happened that in the rear court lived a friend of

his who was skilled in such matters, and they would carry the gentleman

to her without arousing the neighborhood.

No sooner said than done. As they crossed the court with their heavy

burden, they saw a light shining out of Frau Cordula's windows, one of

which was opened in answer to the cobbler's call. But the voice which

inquired what was the matter was that of Gundula, who was still awake

and busied in finishing off some work for the morrow. Learning what

Samaritan service was required of them, she quickly appeared at the

door below, clasping her hands in terror as she saw the blood streaming

from the young man's forehead. The older woman, too, was not a little

disturbed when they laid her patient down before her; but retaining her

presence of mind, she directed her daughter to fetch her box of

remedies. Out of this she took the necessary articles; then, with fresh

water she cleansed the wound, which, fortunately, had not penetrated

the bone, pressed the jagged edges firmly together, and closed them

with a needle and thread, finishing by binding a soft bandage over the

forehead.

During these proceedings the patient had not once regained

consciousness, but lay bolstered up with two pillows on an old sofa in

the living-room. The woman hobbled about on her two crutches, and from

time to time applied cooling bandages to the heated brow.

She assured the two men there was no danger,--the wound would heal in a

few days. The friend saw that he was in fact superfluous; and

recognizing the skill of the good woman, he renounced his intention of

watching during the night, and with heartfelt thanks, withdrew with

Wenzel Kospoth.

Noiselessly as all this had taken place, yet the whispers and hurried

movements in the coachman's lodgings had not failed to reach the fine

ear of Herr Heinrich Mueller, and to awaken him. In his dreams his

thoughts had been continually with Gundula, and he could not rest in

his calash, but must needs peep through the window and witness the

assiduity with which she attended the wounded man.

Johann Gruber, in his chest in the corner, would have had no inkling

of the adventure had not his ghostly companion returned to the

coach-house, when all was again still, and vented his jealous rage in

imprecations upon all the living. The hated Bohemian swindler he

accused of basely conniving to provide a settlement for the daughter of

his friend; and of tripping up the young man in front of his door that

the old witch might cure him, and her patient in turn, out of

gratitude, pay his court to the girl.

Johann Gruber listened to all this with the utmost tranquility, and

yawned so loudly that his colleague turned upon him, and after they had

quarreled and hurled bitter words at each other for a time, they fell

asleep again from sheer exhaustion.

Late in the morning the doctor awoke. When he unclosed his heavy

eyelids and found himself lying upon a strange, poor sort of couch, in

an unfamiliar room, he at first believed himself to be still dreaming.

How came he in this large, low room, so poorly furnished? On the wall

were two oil-chromos--a portrait of the Emperor and a spinach-green

landscape,--upon the corner closet stood a wig-block with flaming red

cheeks, and not far off was a peasant's chest, painted blue, with white

tulips! This surely could not be the bachelor lodgings of his friend!

And where was his friend? While he was puzzling himself about the

matter, he felt a dull heaviness in his head, and pain in his temples.

Mechanically he raised his hand to touch the aching spot, and to his

astonishment felt a bandage--at the same instant he heard a halting

step and the tapping of two crutches upon the bare, scoured floor, and

saw before him the little woman who, while he had slept, had been

sitting noiselessly at her work by the window. Now his eyes opened in

wonder and his full consciousness returned, while she told him how it

was he had claimed their hospitality on the preceding night.

He listened attentively to the good woman, but made no reply, passively

allowing her to remove the bandage and inspect the wound, which she

found satisfactory; whereupon he declared that he felt quite well, save

a slight dizziness and a great emptiness of the stomach, which would be

relieved by a proper breakfast. Mother Cordula brought him a glass of

water and hastened to her little stove to make him as good a cup of

coffee as she was able.

Meanwhile Philip sat upright among his pillows and asked all manner of

questions. A great sense of comfort stole over him in this poor room

behind the well-mended but snowy curtains, in the company of this

simple, sensible woman, whose features were shadowed by a gentle

seriousness.

And now the door opened and a young creature came in, stepping lightly

on her tiptoes, nodding to the older woman and throwing a passing

glance at the stranger.

"My daughter," said the mother, "the gentleman has just waked and would

like his breakfast. He is doing well, thank God! Have you brought

everything with you?"

The girl, still quite out of breath, assented, and put down her basket

upon a chair. Philip saw that it contained various market purchases

much more abundant than they would have provided for their own dinner

table. His attention, however, was soon diverted by the young girl, who

pleased him uncommonly well. She wore a plain brown dress that must

have seen long service; and, as its wearer had not yet done growing, it

had been pieced down, quite regardless of the fashion, though even now

the slender ankles showed beneath it. She had taken off her hat, a

black straw, trimmed with a knot of red, and her pretty face was framed

by an abundance of thick, brown braids, out of which a little forest of

curling locks had escaped over her neck. As she moved noiselessly to

and fro, assisting her mother, she avoided meeting the young man's

glance, and spoke softly, as though in the presence of a very sick

person, when she answered her mother's questions about her work.

But the most charming thing of all was the way the black eyes, always a

trifle downcast, would open suddenly, dart a swift glance around, which

seemed to break into lightning-like sparks and then suddenly drop their

long lashes again.

Twice only, when Philip directed some playful remark to her, did her

red lips break into a smile and a dimple appear in her cheek, showing

that behind that modest, almost childlike brow, was a roguish spirit

which was only repressed by the consciousness of her lowly position and

by considerations of good breeding.

When the mother and daughter sat down to their midday meal other

company appeared--first, Master Kospoth, their daily guest, then the

young engineer. Both were rejoiced to see such an improvement in the

patient; and the friend wished to procure a carriage and convey Philip

at once to his own lodgings.

Frau Cordula, however, insisted upon keeping him until the following

day. The wound, it is true, had begun to heal; but she herself must

renew the bandage several times, and she could not leave her room to

visit the patient.

No one was better pleased with this plan than the invalid himself. He

maintained that he had never slept better, nor drank better coffee.

When the men had gone, and Gundula also, he seated himself upon a

little stool by the window where her sewing machine stood, took up her

scissors, stuck her little thimble upon his finger, and plunged into a

cosy chat with the mother as she sat at the other window with her

sewing. He drew from her the story of her life; and the calm way in

which she spoke of her sad lot, the cruelty of her neighbors, and

recompense for those trials which she had found in her child, touched

the heart of her young listener, and awoke in him a feeling akin to

veneration. When at length Gundula came home in the evening, she

appeared less constrained, and ventured to ask if his wound hurt him,

or should she get some ice to cool the wrappings. To this he would not

consent, and his gallant protest evoked a slight flush upon her cheek.

When she wished to move her machine into the adjoining room lest its

noise disturb him, he would not allow this either, but moved a chair

near her, and watched her taper fingers and the delicate contour of her

face as she bent over her work. The mother, however, remarked that her

patient needed to go to sleep early, sent out the child, dressed the

wound freshly with salve, and withdrew to the back room.

Outside, in the court, a light shadow had been spying in at the window

for an hour past--the poor soul of Heinrich Mueller, which was racked by

the torments of jealousy, and would not retreat until the young pair,

who evidently enjoyed themselves together, were parted once more.

That upon this evening, one of the best mediums pursued his vocation

without result and failed to call up a single spirit, had its

natural explanation in the infatuation which kept this self-declared

lady-killer of old a watcher at the window of our simple peasant maid.

The melancholy ghost felt no slight relief when upon the following

afternoon his lively rival took leave of his excellent nurse and her

daughter and departed for the home of his friend. But the joy was of

short duration; for the next evening, as soon as the darkness would

allow him to take his way unobserved to Ghost Lane, the young doctor

appeared at Frau Cordula's house to have his wound dressed. This time

the stitches were removed, and a plaster was applied over the cloth

with the healing balsam. He had brought a large cornucopia containing a

variety of fruits and confections, at which Gundelchen consented to

nibble, after much persuasion. She had now thawed completely, and

Philip thought he had never heard a prettier laugh from girlish lips

than that which greeted the recital of his student pranks. When, at

times, the conversation took a more serious turn, Gundelchen took part

shyly, asking any number of sensible questions.

And so it went on the following evenings. Sometimes the engineer came,

too, and in the lowly apartment there was such good cheer that they all

forgot the hour and had to be reminded by Master Kospoth that they must

not overstep the time for closing the great door.

It was not the young people alone who found these evening chats

enjoyable; it was good for Frau Cordula as well, to see a bit of life

around her once more, and to be able to converse with intelligent

people. Still, she could not disguise the fact that a strange

alteration had come upon her child; she went about abstractedly all

day, and only regained her old-time merriment in the evening to fall

again into a reverie when she was alone with her mother.

The wise woman was accordingly glad when one evening she could inform

her patient that the wound was almost healed, and that even the scar

would soon disappear if he continued to apply the ointment which she

gave him in a little jar. She would now take leave of him, as his

visits could hardly be concealed if continued much longer, and she

herself wished to avoid all gossip among her uncharitable neighbors.

The young man started, and Gundelchen grew as pale as death; but her

mother had such a decided way, that there was nothing for them but to

part sadly, after Philip had consumed a good five minutes in thanking

anew his deliverer, pressing her hand the while. The daughter lighted

him out to the head of the steep stairs. As he stood there a minute or

two in evident perplexity, wishing to say something, yet still silent,

he cast one quick glance at her standing beside him in all her charming

confusion, seized her hand and kissed it; then, as she drew back,

blushing deeply, and murmured, "But, Herr Doctor!" he threw his arm

hastily around her and printed a swift kiss upon her hot cheek,

whereupon he rushed down the narrow stairs, and, with a fast-beating

heart, strode homeward through the sultry night. Heinrich Mueller had

fortunately been engaged at a _seance_ and had not witnessed this

scene. When, a couple of hours later, he looked in at Gundelchen's

window, he saw her with wide-open eyes, and a smile on her face,

dreaming--but of what he had no suspicion.

On the following day, a servant brought a large, firmly-locked box up

the stairs to the little house in the rear court. Gundula had just come

in to dinner, and Wenzel Kospoth, too, happened to be present when the

box was opened. Within it lay all manner of pretty finery for a young

girl, and a warm dress-pattern for an older woman. With it came a note

containing the request that they would kindly accept these trifles and

thus relieve the sender, in some slight degree, of the weight of

obligation which lay upon his heart.

In the lid lay a very modest little brooch. The girl had once

complained that she lost all her pins; now the hope was expressed that

this little clasp would hold more firmly, and that, at the same time,

it would secure the recollection of a true friend.

Wenzel Kospoth shook his gray head and muttered something about a

gallant young man who would do the generous thing. But Frau Cordula

directed the child to get pen and paper at once, and write down what

she should dictate, which was as follows:

She thanked the Herr Doctor many times for his kind intention to give

them pleasure; but she could on no account accept these costly

presents, as she must of necessity perform her medical services without

compensation, if she would not render herself liable to punishment on

the charge of unlawful practice. She would therefore return everything

at once, and remain the Herr Doctor's

Respectful and devoted servant,

Cordula Ehrenberg.

When Philip received this message, which was brought him together with

the box by a boy from Ghost Lane, he was greatly crestfallen. He knew

the simple woman so well that he suffered himself to be deluded by no

doubts of her entire sincerity in thus declining all further

intercourse. And as he had to confess to himself that he could not

seriously think of making her child his wife, and was still less

inclined to play with her feelings, he finally concluded, with a deep

sigh, to lock fast the chamber of his heart, which was haunted by the

image of the witch's child, and to draw a cross over the whole

adventure.

At the same time he recalled to himself, for the first time, that he

was already half-engaged to another; and he took pains to fan anew the

flame of his youthful love, which, in this last week, had died down to

an almost imperceptible little spark.

The surest means to this end would be a visit to the house of the

Stadtraths. Yet, although he could now, with his scar concealed by a

narrow strip of plaster, appear once more as a smart young suitor, he

put off the once longed-for interview from day to day, stayed quietly

in the house and whiled away the lonely hours when his host was away at

business, in a depressing idleness, in desultory reading, smoking and

lying on the sofa, in a sort of dream, wherein he could not prevent a

certain slender, girlish figure from hovering before his mental eye.

Sometimes the long lashes would be raised, and swift little flashes

would shoot out from a pair of black, star-like eyes.