her consolation in another direction, that might well have gladdened a
less deeply-wounded heart. Her other child Lisabethli, who was about
eight years younger than the lost son, was as admirably endowed, as
obedient and loving, and as completely the delight of every one who
saw her, as her brother was the reverse. And these sweet and lovely
characteristics, though originally a matter of temperament no
doubt, were in no small measure owing to her own self-training and
self-culture; for her mother--more particularly during the years when
Andreas was at home--had erred quite as much on the side of severity
towards her youngest child as on that of indulgence towards her
favourite. Even when Lisabethli was quite a small thing in the
school-room, she had shed many hidden tears over the reproofs and
constant putting-down she received; and pitied herself for her
inability by all her love and duty to win from her mother one of the
fond words or caresses which the else stern lady lavished upon her
unruly boy. All her anxiety on his account seemed but to estrange her
from her sweet girl, about whom, by the way, her brother no more
concerned himself than though she had not been in existence. And yet
the child continued to be gentleness and brightness itself, and was
soon wise enough to estimate the misery that disturbed the balance of
her mother's mind, and to resolve to treat all injustice towards
herself as she would the mood or caprice of a suffering invalid.
Later--after the flight of Andreas from Lausanne, and while the rumour
of it was spreading more and more amongst the inhabitants of Berne--the
relations between mother and daughter improved. Indeed the former had
never been blind to the pure beauty of her child's nature, though, like
one under an evil spell, she wrought out her own wretchedness by her
partiality. Her mortally wounded maternal pride still forbade her to
betray to her daughter, even by a sigh, the pangs her son inflicted on
her. But in all other respects she now seemed to give the young girl
the next place in her affections, and was even anxious to make up for
all that in her earlier days she had inflicted or withheld. Still she
was sparing of her caresses. If she but passed her delicate white hand
over the girl's brown head when wishing her good night, still more if
she kissed her eyes and said, "my good child," Lisabethli would blush
crimson for joy, and the happy beating of her heart would keep her
awake a whole hour.
At the same time, Frau Amthor endeavoured so far as was compatible with
her stern character, to procure for her daughter all the pleasures and
amusements of her age, and was in the habit of inviting her friends on
Sundays to the quiet home, behind which lay a beautiful terraced
garden, and during the summer time the young people used to enjoy
little excursions, and out-door parties; but she forbade them most
strictly to go to any dances however respectably carried on, or in
accordance with long established custom, they might be. It seemed that
some innermost feeling of her nature shrank from the idea of the sister
dancing while the brother, homeless and friendless, might at that very
moment be driven by despair to end his life. For that it would come to
this at last, was the one spectral thought that cast its shadow over
the mother's soul both in her waking and sleeping hours.
The house that had belonged to the Amthors for many generations, was a
narrow three-storied antique building, with wainscoted walls and
ceilings, and handsomely furnished with old silk tapestry and heavy
hangings. On the ground-floor were the offices and the room in which
dwelt the old man-servant and the faithful maid by whom the work of the
house was done. Above were the rooms inhabited by the mother and
daughter, which opened at the back upon the garden; and in the third
story were what had been the late councillor's library and study, and
of later years rooms entirely devoted to Andreas. The chamber where his
bed stood had not since his departure been entered by any one but the
old maid-servant. His mother never set her foot in it, and if his
sister crept by it to take a book from the library, she held her breath
as she passed the door as though it were haunted.
Our story begins on a September evening--on the very day that
Lisabethli had completed her nineteenth year. In honour of the
anniversary, her mother had invited some half-dozen of the girl's
favourite companions and what with singing and other amusements, which
the grave matron left the young people to carry on alone, the hour of
ten had struck unobserved. Indeed the girls, who after a very sultry
day were still pacing the garden walks arm in arm, deep in important
confidential talk, might easily have forgot time till midnight, if a
storm that had gathered on the other side of the river had not scared
them in. And once in, they found that their respective attendants had
come for them with lanterns, and so kisses and good-byes were heartily
exchanged, and in the great room looking out on the terrace the usual
stillness prevailed, when the first roll of thunder resounded through
the darkness.
Frau Helena had joined her daughter, who stood in the open doorway
looking down, beyond the dark steps leading into the garden, to the
river Aar, lost in vague, dream-like thoughts, such as are wont to
succeed a festive day when the soul is once more free to retire into
itself. She gently laid her hand on her daughter's hair, and the sweet
child silently leaned her head down on the mother's shoulder, as though
to seek shelter from the vivid flash of lightning that suddenly rent
the black cloud above them. "Come in, child," said the mother, "we
shall soon have rain."
The daughter shook her head without saying a word. She was now gazing
steadily on the clear space of sky at the horizon, where the snow peaks
of the Oberland far away from the range of the thunder-cloud, rose
glittering in the moonlight, a wondrous spectacle indeed. "Dear little
mother," at length she said, "how vast the earth is! Yonder they
neither see nor hear anything of the storm that rages here. And yet
still further off, in that star just above the Rothhorn, they would
know nothing of it if our earth were to be shivered to atoms!"
Her mother made no reply. Her thoughts were--she herself did not know
where, but well she knew with whom--with the one they had always flown
to at the approach of bad weather for many years past; because, while
the sky was growing dark, she could not tell whether her boy had a roof
over his head or not.
"How the river feels and answers to the storm!" resumed the girl. "One
might really fancy one saw the surface shudder with terror as the
lightnings flash down. And yet they can go on dancing and fiddling in
the tavern on the little island yonder. They must be a godless set."
"They will soon leave off," said the mother, "it will be too bad even
for them. No human being is so hardened but what the hour comes when he
hearkens if God warns him. But let us come in. The drops that fall are
large as hazel-nuts."
"Look, mother," said the daughter holding her back, "there is something
not right going on there. The door of the tavern is suddenly thrown
open--people are rushing out--there is a girl in their midst--something
flashes like a sword-blade--listen! they are quarrelling--oh, what wild
unruly creatures!"
The thunder now paused, and a sound of angry voices as well as of
breaking glass was plainly audible, while a single clarionet,
undisturbed by all the noise and confusion, went shrilly on playing gay
dancing tunes.
"I would give a hundred crowns," said Frau Helena with brows knit, "if
that sink of iniquity yonder were removed from the town. I really might
be driven to think of changing my house in my old days, merely to
escape hearing and seeing such things as these."
"And just at this sweetest of all hours," interposed the girl, "when
everything else is so peaceful, and one might for once dream and think
at will. Just look, they are all crossing the bridge now. For God's
sake--why they are actually fighting--one is being pushed against the
railings--the woman throws herself between them--his arms are free
again--if they should push him into the river--"
"Come, that is enough," said the mother authoritatively, "now let us go
in. It is no sight for Christians to gaze at when men attack each other
more cruelly than wild beasts would do. Just read me the evening lesson
and then we will go to bed."
A brilliant flash now suddenly lit up the houses by the side of the
Aar, the tavern on the island, and the high sweltering current of the
river.
For a moment the dark group massed on the narrow bridge was distinctly
seen: a tall youth with a red feather in his cap in their midst,
struggling against them, with only a woman with white head-gear on his
side. The clash of swords was heard, and a shrill female cry for help,
and then with a terrific thunder-clap like the fall of some mighty
tower, the clouds sent down sheets of rain, darkness swallowed up the
wild doings on the bridge, and nothing remained visible but the red
light in the window of the island tavern.
The two women had retreated into the house horrified, and while the
mother slowly walked up and down the carpeted floor, Lisabethli sat at
the table, her hands folded on the open book before her, and her eyes
fixed upon a large nosegay which stood in a beautiful Venetian glass, a
present from her godfather on this her birthday. As to reading, that
was not to be thought of, the thunder would have drowned her voice;
still less was sleep possible, for the scene of violence was too
vividly present to her mind. She kept listening intently for what might
be going on without. "Oh God!" she almost unconsciously prayed, "have
pity upon them all, and let no harm be done!" Just then another flash
shone through the window and the door which had been left ajar that the
fresh night-air might enter the room, and she fancied that she saw a
shadow on the upper terrace show through the pane for one moment, and
then vanish. "Mother," she faintly called out, "let us lock the door,
someone has climbed over the wall, and--"
She could not end her sentence, for the door was pushed open and a man
rushed into the room. "For the sake of God's mercy," cried he, sinking
half from exhaustion, half in the attitude of entreaty at the knees of
Frau Helena. "Whoever you be, noble lady, save an innocent man! They
are on my track. Where--where--" and he looked around, and with
blood-stained hands pushed his dripping hair from his eyes. "Where can
I hide myself! What can I say to move your heart to pity? If you knew
how it had all come about, how entirely without fault of mine I have
fallen into this horrible strait--am hunted down as a murderer--oh
noble maiden--" and he turned to the pale girl who gazed with a shudder
at the red feather in the stranger's cap; "if you have a brother who is
dear to you--who may perhaps at this moment be asking hospitality in
some strange land--implore your lady-mother not to thrust me out into
the night where Heaven knows what disgrace may overtake me. By the head
of your own son, noble lady--"
"Silence!" interrupted Frau Amthor in a hollow trembling tone, more
awful in the ears of the suppliant than the roar of the thunder.
Meanwhile she looked at him with such an absent far-away expression
that her daughter flew to support her in case she should swoon. But it
passed over.
"Close the terrace-door," she hastily said, leaning back in her chair,
"then call Valentin. But make haste! I seem to hear voices in the
garden below."
The young girl bolted the heavy door in the twinkling of an eye, and
hurried off. The stranger remained a moment or two alone with the
mother.
"You are saving my honour and liberty!" he stammered out, "perhaps my
life. But believe, noble lady, that what you do is not done for one
unworthy or reprobate, and my own mother, who would ransom the life of
her son with all she has, were he to fall among bandits, will in return
for your noble-hearted deed--"
"Not another word," broke in the matron, "what I do is not done for
your sake. But you are bleeding," she suddenly said, and paused--her
glance falling upon a spot on his shoulder where great drops were
oozing through his black silk doublet.
"It is nothing," returned he, hastily pressing his glove on the place.
"I hardly feel it. Would to God that the blow I dealt in return may not
be more dangerous! But I fear--"
Lisabethli now returned with the old servant. "Valentin," said the
lady, "take this stranger gentleman to the upper story, and then see
him to bed--in the room--you know which. No one is to know that he is
in the house. I will give my own instructions to Donate. You understand
how to foment. Look to the gentleman's wounds; there is linen in the
cupboard; there are shirts in the press---he is to be treated _as
though he were my own son_. Go--I hear footsteps."
They all listened with beating hearts. In spite of the noise of the
rain, voices were audible in the garden. The next moment the old
servant had pushed the stranger out of the room, and mother and
daughter were alone.
"My child," said the mother, "go for a time downstairs to Donate. I
shall have to lie, and I would not that your ears should hear me."
"Mother," returned the girl, "I pray you to let me remain with you. I
should die of terror down there. Never believe that anything you do can
seem wrong in my eyes; and you are doing it to save a human life."
Meanwhile there were three knocks at the bolted door. "In the name of
the law, open," a deep voice called out.
"Who knocks at this late hour?" returned Frau Amthor, and her voice
sounded as unconstrained as though nothing had happened.
"The sergeant, with the train band," was the reply. "Open, or we burst
the door."
"Go, Lisabethli," said the lady in so loud a tone that every word was
audible without. "I must say that customs are changing in our old town
of Berne: the idea of the watch breaking into a peaceable private
dwelling in the dark night-time! I hope you have some satisfactory
explanation to give of this visit of yours, sergeant," this in a
majestic tone to the intruder, "you know who I am, and that my house is
not likely to contain any disreputable character whom the bailiffs are
after."
The sergeant who had cast a hasty glance all round the room, now stood
confounded opposite the lofty figure of the matron, and his eyes fell
before the steady gaze of hers. "Forgive me, Frau Amthor," he mumbled,
while he beckoned to his followers to stay where they were, and kept
awkwardly turning the handle of his dagger round and round. "We are on
the track of a dangerous fellow who has taken part in riotous,
murderous doings on the island yonder. When I and my men were
approaching the tavern the people in it saw him flying in this
direction, leaping over hedges and walls, and we traced his foot-marks
to your garden, and even found one of his gloves below the window.
Therefore I held it to be my duty--"
"To break into my house as though it were a likely refuge for
murderers," interposed the matron, looking at him with so undaunted a
gaze that the bearded man stared down at the carpet much embarrassed by
the wet foot-prints he had left on its pattern. "Go your way," she
continued, "and be more careful another time at what door you knock.
To-morrow I shall go to the Town Council and lay a complaint before
them about their endurance of the disorder and riot that goes on on the
island, exposing even the quietest householder in the neighbourhood to
an invasion of the watch by night on a charge of unlawful concealment!"
The sergeant would fain have broken out into further apologies, but an
imperative gesture of the lady, in the direction of the door, prevented
his uttering a word. He retired with head sunk low, and had scarcely
crossed the threshold, when Lisabethli shot the bolts after him, and
then sunk down on a seat, with a deep-drawn sigh, so much had the short
scene affected her.
"Remain here," said the mother after a pause. "Light a taper for me. I
will go upstairs."
"Dearest mother," pleaded the girl timidly, "would you not
rather-- Indeed you are too pale--it will distress you too much."
Frau Helena made no reply, but taking the light out of her hand, left
the room with face rigidly set, as though no worse thing could happen
to her. She was a sternly virtuous woman, a proud woman, who had always
felt too much self-respect to condescend to a lie. Now she had degraded
herself in her own estimation and in the presence of her child, and
this for the sake of a stranger who had no other claim to such a
sacrifice than that of having adjured her by her deepest grief.
The door through which she had passed remained half open, and
Lisabethli could hear with what slow and heavy steps she went up the
stairs, and how often she rested on the way, as though needing to
gather breath and courage for the painful entrance into her lost son's
room, which she had not visited for years.
"He is in a swoon," said old Valentin, meeting her on the threshold. "I
have bound up his wounds, but as I was putting a clean shirt on him he
fell lifeless from under my hands. I will fetch some cold water: there
is no danger--it is only faintness from loss of blood."
He hurried down stairs, and the lady entered the room.
There lay the stranger on the bed, his eyes closed, his mouth half open
from pain, and showing his white teeth. His light hair still dripping
with blood and rain, was pushed back from his pale brow. His cap and
silken doublet lay on the ground, as well as the blood-soaked shirt
which the old servant had replaced by a clean one. Frau Helena trembled
all over when she saw this stranger clothed in the fine linen she
herself had spun for her son, and marked with his initials. That she
might avoid seeing anything else in the room, she fixed her eyes on the
young face that in spite of its deadly pallor had a boyish, harmless,
good-natured expression. She saw at once from his clothing that he was
the son of respectable parents, and the tone in which he had implored
her to save him, still rung pathetically in her ears. A motherly
feeling overcame her, and great tears rolled down her faded face.
Then the old servant returned with a pitcher of cold water, and
prepared to wash the temples of the unconscious youth. "Leave that to
me," said his mistress, taking the sponge out of his hand. "Bring the
best vinegar out of the side-board, and a flask of our old wine. When
he comes to himself he will need a cordial." Then she washed the blood
out of his hair, and held the ice-cold sponge to his lips. This brought
him round: he opened his eyes, and on seeing the noble lady who had
saved him bending over his couch, he tried to sit up and speak to her.
But she gently constrained him to lie down again, and to let her go on
with her ministrations. "I am better already," he gasped out, while he
took hold of her hand to carry it to his lips. "O how much you are
doing for me! And you do not know me, and must think ill of me. Let me
just tell you how it all came about."
"Not another word to-night," interposed the lady, gently laying her
hand on his lips. "You have lost too much blood to exert yourself
safely. I leave you in the care of my old servant who will sit up with
you. I hope that you will get some sleep, and to-morrow be on the way
to recovery. Good night."
She left the room without casting a look around at any of the things
that evoked such bitter memories. But as soon as she found herself in
the dark lobby, she leant her head against the wall, and sobbed in
secret. This burst of grief lasted but a few minutes, then she raised
her head again, and with her usual lofty bearing went down to her
daughter. "Valentin thinks that there is no danger," she said. "Let us
go to our rest."
"Mother," asked the girl, "do you believe that he is a murderer? There
is something about him that seems as if he would not hurt the meanest
thing that lives, let alone a fellow creature."
"Yet on the other hand how did he get to that tavern on the island?"
said the mother, as if speaking to herself.
"Because he was a stranger," hastily broke in the daughter. "He does
not speak the German of Switzerland. Did you not notice that, mother
dear?"
"It is useless to theorise about it," abruptly replied Frau Amthor.
"Come to bed, child, the storm has passed over."
And so after the daughter had read the evening prayers, they went to
their rest. But it was long after midnight before either of them closed
an eye. Lisabethli kept constantly seeing before her the true-hearted
terror-stricken gaze of the stranger, when he appealed to her to help
to soften her mother's heart, the blood on his forehead, the red
feather in his cap, while the scream of the woman who threw herself
between the combatants on the bridge, still sounded in her ears. Frau
Helena for her part was listening anxiously to what went on overhead.
For the room where the wounded man lay was immediately above her
chamber, and she thought of all the nights she had lain awake till
morning expecting the return of Andreas from his orgies, and how when
at length she heard his unsteady step, she used to turn on her pillow,
not to sleep, but to shed bitter tears. Now everything was silent
enough, only from time to time Valentin gave a short cough. The poor
lady sat up in bed, and tried to pray; "Oh Lord God," so ran her
prayer; "let him in foreign lands meet a mother to stand by him in all
time of need; and if no one will have pity on him, let him find his way
back to his own mother, that I may not die before I have once more held
his hand in mine."
* * * * *
The morning was just breaking pale and cloudy through the small round
panes, when Frau Helena left her room, and hastily dressed herself.
"Sleep another hour," said she to Lisabethli, who at once bestirred
herself too. "I will just go upstairs, and see how our guest is
faring."
The girl, however, had no wish for further rest. Very quietly she too
rose and dressed, and crept on tip-toe after her mother. On the stair
she met Donate carrying a small tray. "He has not made much of his
breakfast," said the faithful old servant. "Fearfully weak he still is,
and his hand shakes so if he tries to hold the spoon. But for the rest
a very fine handsome creature, and I would rather bite my tongue out
than betray him."
The young girl made no reply, but went on to the top of the staircase.
Once there, as the door had been left ajar, she could see the stranger
lying in bed, but raising his head a little to greet Frau Helena, who
was bending over him and enquiring how he had slept.