herself only closed his eyes a short time before--fast asleep, and so
she sat by his bedside contemplating the good innocent countenance that
beamed with hope and happiness even in its sleep. But as still he did
not wake, she called him by his name. At that he started, and in his
confusion could find no words, especially as he did not know what she
would say to his letter. But though her face remained grave, her words
at once gave him comfort and confidence. "Dear son," said she, "you
must not remain here any longer. After what you have written to my
child, it would not be fitting that I should persuade you to go on
accepting our well-meant though poor hospitality. As soon as you are
ready to set out we must part, and Valentin will let you out at the
garden door, from whence you must make your way to the 'Stork,' and
there get your horse, explaining your long absence in the most credible
way you can. And further I must insist that you do not before your
departure say a word to my daughter that might not be spoken to a
stranger. She loves you dearly, and I may truly say that I could wish
nothing more than to have so worthy a son, since my own son," and here
she sighed from the depths of her heart, "is alas! lost to me, as I
shall tell you later. But I do not choose your parents to think that
after nursing you here we have taken advantage of your gratitude to
procure a husband for my daughter; and you yourself, when you go off
and mix with the world again, may wonder at the especial charm you
found in my simple child, when she was your only companion. Therefore
you must part without one binding word on either side, and thus my
child, too, will have time to examine her young heart, and to find out
whether compassion and the interest of an adventure may not have
produced an illusory belief that you are her Heaven-appointed
bridegroom. If when you have spoken to your parents and obtained their
consent you are still of the same mind as now, you can let us know by
letter or in person, and God will then give his blessing if this
marriage be really made in Heaven. And now, dear son, I leave you, and
shall expect you at breakfast, for you shall not leave my house fasting
and unrefreshed, although I must still impose abstinence upon your
yearning heart."
She rose and pressed a mother's kiss on the brow of the youth, who had
listened in speechless rapture. But if he drew from this token of
affection any hope that she would not be so stern as to prevent him
pressing his loved maiden to his heart once at least before they
parted, he did not know the strong character of this mother, in whose
nature severity and tenderness were strangely blended. The farewell had
to take place exactly in the manner prescribed, and if Lisabethli had
not in reaching out her hand given him a look that was one long
confession of the deepest love and fidelity, he might have gone away,
not in joyous hope, but in uncertainty as to whether or not he had
found a heart that was his for life and death. He left a ring on the
table of his room, wrapped in paper, with just one line to the mother.
"Will you keep this token for me till you allow me to offer it to your
child." As to Valentin and Donate, he rewarded their care so liberally
that in their amazement they came to tell Frau Helena that Herr Kurt
must surely have made some mistake. But when they saw the traces of
tears in Lisabethli's eyes, they silently went their way, and began to
put many things together.
This was about noon, when most persons were at home, and Kurt could go
through Frau Amthor's garden-gate with least risk of being observed.
Some hours passed by without the mother and daughter opening their lips
even to speak on indifferent subjects. They were more occupied with
each other than ever, and showed it in a hundred little loving ways,
only they hardly dared to allow their eyes to meet, for each had a
secret to keep. When the day got cooler, the mother was just going to
invite her child, who was walking alone in the garden, to put on her
hat and take a turn with her through the town, when Valentin suddenly
appeared with an anxious visage, and hastily announced that the chief
sergeant, who had paid his mistress a visit twelve days before, now
requested to know whether she was at home. He had something, he said,
of importance and urgency to communicate. Frau Helena--whose first idea
was some fresh imprudence on the part of Kurt--had just time to make a
sign to Valentin, enjoining silence towards Lisabethli, when in came
the stately dignitary, looking far more solemn and mysterious than he
had done on the former occasion, and requesting a private interview.
After she had led him into a small study, where he took his seat facing
her, coughed several times, and re-arranging the tags on his dress, he
began in evident embarrassment to address her as follows:--
"I need not to premise, worthy Frau Amthor, how not only your family
and house, but also your own character are held in honour by every
person, public or private, in our good town, and your virtues, as well
at the name and memory of your departed husband, looked up to as a
Christian example. It is, therefore, the universal wish to keep sorrow
far from you, and to offer you whatever consolation lies within human
power for such trial as Heaven has appointed. It will not have escaped
you that all as by common consent have long avoided touching the wound
that your son's conduct has inflicted, and I indeed as your friend and
relative, should have been especially bound never to name your lost
Andreas in your presence, if my official duty had not required me so to
do. Will you, therefore, not render my painful duty still harder to me
by suppression or evasion, but openly tell me what accounts of your son
you have lately had, and where you have reason to believe him now to
be?"
"If you ask me thus earnestly," replied the mother, without betraying
either in look or tone how fast her heart was beating; "I must, alas!
return you for answer, that it will be four years next All Saints'
since I saw my unhappy son for the last time, and that since then I
have had no manner of communication from him. But now let me enquire
what leads you and the rest of the Town-Council to make such enquiries
about the absent one who--whatever his offences may be--has at least
not given his native town any cause for complaint for a space of nine
years?"
The sergeant coughed again, and resumed after a pause, during which he
was evidently in search of the most appropriate words possible. "Hear
me out patiently, my worthy friend and relative, and do not be startled
if my communication should sound strange and alarming. Up to the
present time it is only a surmise which may--God grant it!--prove to be
entirely unfounded. You remember the night on which the train-band
intruded upon you, and the disorderly conduct on the island, respecting
which I waited upon you the following day, bearing the apologies of the
Council. The tavern which caused you so much annoyance, was closed at
once, and the scene of much nightly misdemeanour removed. Neither since
that night had any trace of the chief offenders been found, so that I
began to suspect the watchmen must have been bewildered with new wine,
and seen phantoms. But last evening, just as we were breaking up, a
young female was brought before us, who had gone to the sexton of St.
Ursula to request him to give private burial to a corpse then in her
room, since she feared--the fatal wound having been received in a
brawl--that she might else as a stranger in the place be held in some
way amenable to the law. The little money the girl possessed--she
seemed to be no better than a French courtesan, and could scarcely put
ten German words together--she had offered the sexton as a bribe for
secrecy, but when he, as his duty was, gave information of the death,
and took her with him to the Court, she seemed inspired with sudden
courage, and being thoroughly cross-examined by us, was yet able to
establish her innocence in this tragic matter. The dead man, who had
been her lover and brought her with him from Lyons, had on the night of
the storm picked a quarrel on the island with an unknown youth, and had
been stabbed by the latter during a struggle on the bridge. When the
train-band was seen approaching, she had just had time with the help of
two of their travelling companions, to get the unconscious man into a
boat, and to bring him to the obscure inn where they had arrived on the
previous day. The two other men seeing that there was nothing more to
be made, got themselves out of the scrape, but she had faithfully
tended the wounded man by night and day, and persuaded the host that he
was getting better, and would if secrecy were maintained reward him
liberally by-and-by. It was only when he had drawn his last breath that
she thought of herself with any anxiety, for during his illness she had
been obliged to spend all the money he had won at play, and the few
ornaments she had, she had sold to a Jew in hopes of getting him
quietly buried. As to her future maintenance, however, she continued
with brazen assurance, she should have no fear, as she was young
and--thank God!--not ugly, if only she were acquitted by us, and could
get to a country where people understood her. The dead man had, indeed,
treated her liberally as regarded dress, food, and presents, but she
had not had much pleasure with him, for he was of a sulky temper, and
not a thorough Frenchman, spite of his name. She rather thought he must
have been an Alsatian. He called himself Laporte, had travelled through
many lands, had served in the Dutch army, and was not fond of speaking
about his past. The idea of travelling in Switzerland occurred to him
when he had exhausted all his means. She had never found out whether he
had a treasure buried in this country, or friends who were in any way
bound to him, and at whose door he had only to knock in order to be set
on his legs again. This was the simple truth, and more she did not
herself know, and therefore could not tell us, even if she were put to
the torture.
"After this declaration of Fleurette,--which was the female's name--the
mayor ordered that the body should be moved from the inn (where as yet
the death had not transpired) to the hospital, and last night it was
borne upon a bier into the dead house, and a protocol was made previous
to the interment of the stranger--as such--close to the churchyard
wall. The foreign hussy was meanwhile confined for a season in the
tower of the hospital. When we betook ourselves this morning to the
dead house, and the inspector had given us his report, namely, that
the wound had been dealt by a German sword between the fourth and
fifth ribs, and that it was a marvel such a wound had been so long
survived--there came a judicial investigation of the clothes and few
effects found, the result of which in no way contradicted, but rather
confirmed, the young woman's statement. We found that in his commission
as officer in the Dutch army, he was entered as a Monsieur Laporte or
De la Porte; there were no other papers. The clerk had indeed already
finished the protocol, when the surgeon called our attention to a
seal-ring on the dead man's clenched left hand. It was a thick gold
ring of curious make, with a blood-red cornelian, and it was impossible
to get it off. But as I chanced--being fond of antiques--to bend down
closer with a candle in order to examine the style of it, I saw to my
surprise and horror, that it was exactly--but you must not be alarmed,
it may as I said be merely accidental--_exactly_ I repeat, like the
family arms of the Amthors, two beams supporting a cornice with an open
door in the middle and a star above. The candle shook in my hand, all
the more that at the same moment I saw in the pale bearded face, which
had at first seemed to me that of a perfect stranger, an expression--I
pray you, my good cousin, to forgive me if I pain you--an expression
such as I had seen on the dead face of my excellent and honoured
friend, your late husband, when on the day of his burial I stood for
the last time beside his open coffin."
The worthy man, having got so far in his narrative, made a pause,
during which he did not venture to look at the matron opposite him,
though indeed he could but poorly estimate the amount of the woe that
hung over her. He had no idea that the fate of both children might
depend on whether the stranger proved to be her own son or not.
"Be comforted, my beloved friend," he at length resumed, wiping away
the cold drops from his brow. "I have taken upon myself not to say a
word of this discovery to any one but the mayor, whom you know to be an
honourable man heartily devoted to your family. I asked him whether
this melancholy supposition had not better be buried in our hearts. It
is not probable, but yet it is possible, that a branch of the Amthors
may have migrated to foreign lands, there changed their name to Laporte
or De la Porte for the sake of convenience, retaining, however, the
family arms. As to that look in the dead face, which is a good deal
disfigured by a deep scar, I said nothing about it to him, as he had
declared he saw no likeness whatever to Andreas, whom he remembered to
have often met nine or ten years ago. Nevertheless he was of opinion
that so singular a coincidence ought not to remain a secret to you. If
indeed, contrary to all probability, it should prove to be your poor
son who has met with so tragical an end, no one would deny a mother the
bitter consolation of blessing to its eternal rest, the head she had
carried beneath her heart. Again, as regards official formalities, it
is unfitting that we should satisfy ourselves with the declaration of a
vagabond female, when we have the most convincing witness at hand; for
it may prove desirable hereafter, with regard to future demises,
inheritances, and the like, to have some certain knowledge to go upon.
Therefore I determined to come to you, to lay the whole case before
you, and persuade you, if I can, to pay a visit to the hospital--as
secretly as you will--in order to prevent all useless suspense or
suspicion."
So saying he rose and went to the window to give Frau Helena time to
collect herself and come to a decision. A quarter of an hour passed
away, during which nothing was audible in the small room but the
ticking of the great clock--a wedding present from Lisabethli's
grandfather to his daughter-in-law, bearing on its metal face the
family arms of the Amthors. Out of doors, too, all was still--nothing
to be heard but the cawing of a flight of rooks wending their way over
the terrace, or the muffled thud of an over-ripe apple on the grass.
At length the lady rose and approached her old and tried friend, who
met her rigid gaze with an expression of sorrowful sympathy. "I thank
you," she said, "for having come to me, and performed this painful duty
with so much consideration. Say to the highly respected mayor that I
shall find myself at about nine o'clock at the side-door of the
hospital, and should wish to be met there by some trustworthy person,
and this painful step concealed from all who might be likely to talk of
it. The rest I leave in God's hand--He will order it aright."
"I shall be there myself to meet you," replied the sergeant. "May our
Lord God strengthen your heart, and your frame, and grant us the
fulfilment of our hope that this may prove merely an accidental
coincidence!"
"Amen!" said Frau Helena in a hollow voice, in which was no hope
whatever.
Thereupon her visitor left her. As soon as she was alone she sank down
on her knees in the place where she had been standing, and waves of
anguish closed over her mother's heart.
* * * * *
It was already getting dusk, when her daughter's voice speaking in the
garden to old Donate, roused the mourner from her trance. Soon after
Lisabethli entered, and found her mother sitting at her desk, as though
evening had overtaken her at her accounts and letters.
"Dearest mother," said the girl, "he has sent me another letter--a boy
brought it to Donate; he wrote it as soon as he had got beyond the
gates, because you said he might write when far away. Will you read it?
He says that I am to be as sure of his truth as of your love, and that
nothing can ever part us but death."
She held the letter out to her mother, but the latter did not take it.
"Leave me alone, awhile, child," she replied. "I have got something to
think over."
The girl went away, happy to keep her treasure all to herself. The
mother remained an hour longer in the darkening room, absorbed in
darkest thoughts, through which pierced not one heavenly ray. She never
for a moment doubted that the ring on the finger of the dead man, was
the same that she had placed on the finger of her Andreas the first
time that he went to Holy Communion. As to any accident which had
transferred this ring to the hand of some one else, she never
entertained the idea. He who lay in the dead house of the hospital with
that sword-thrust in his breast was none other than her much-loved,
much-wept son. And he who had killed this son--in self-defence it is
true--was one to whom she had promised her daughter, who would probably
return in a few weeks as a happy bridegroom to the desolate house, and
with laughing face carry off her daughter, so that through him she
should be bereaved of both her children. She hated him at that moment,
she cursed the hour in which he entered her house, cursed her own
tongue that had promised him protection and ratified that promise with
a falsehood, when saving him from his pursuers. And yet the next moment
her heart recalled that curse, for in her mind's eye she saw again the
candid face of the innocent fugitive, heard his clear tones, remembered
her own words when she vowed to be a mother to him, and her daughter's
voice when she came to her on the previous evening with her letter, and
said, "I should have died, dearest mother, had he not loved me." She
knew her child, and that these words were not lightly spoken. She felt,
moreover, what she owed to this child, who had been for years defrauded
of her due share of maternal love. Would she not have cause of bitter
complaint against a brother who, after years of long wild wandering,
had only returned to his country to bring fresh misery on his mother's
head, and to destroy the whole happiness of his sister's life? "No,"
said the stronghearted woman, "it must not be. No one is guilty here
but I. I am the real cause of his miserable end, I with my foolish
indulgence and subservience from excess of love! No one shall
suffer--ought to suffer, but I. I shall not have any joy in the son
whom God seemed to have given me to replace my lost one; my other
child will go away, and I shall be left solitary, with only my own
misery--misery purchased by a double falsehood!"
She sank again into gloomy brooding, till the minster clock struck
nine. Then she started, and gathering together all the strength of a
desolate soul, she called to Lisabethli to bring her her coif, as she
had a necessary errand that took her out. The girl wondered at her
going so late, but did not like to ask any questions, having indeed in
her early days too many experiences of unusual proceedings on her
mother's part to dwell much upon this wonder, especially now she had
such happy thoughts of her own. But old Valentin could not refrain from
enquiring whether he might not light the lantern and accompany his
mistress. She shook her head in silence, doubled her veil over her
face, and left the house.
It was no great distance to the hospital, but she often felt as though
she should never be able to reach it. "O Lord God!" she inwardly
prayed, "take me away from earth! It is too much--Thou visitest Thy
servant too severely!" And yet something too seemed to draw her onwards
to the place where she should behold for the last time the long yearned
after face of her lost son!
When she reached the site of the old pest-house, with its handsome
chapel, a man dressed in black drew near and whispered her name. It
was, she knew, her friend the chief sergeant, but they did not exchange
words, and he led her through the side-door, which he unlocked, into
the interior of the building. They entered a dimly-lighted hall, where
the hospital attendant on duty had fallen asleep on a bench. Their
footsteps wakened him, but at a signal from the sergeant he remained
where he was, while the former lighted another taper, and preceded the
lady. They went up some steps, and through a long passage to a kind of
cellar-door which stood half open. "If you prefer to go in alone," said
he, "take the taper. I will wait for you in the passage."
She bowed assent in silence, took the tin sconce into her hand, and
entered the chamber of the dead.
It was a low stone-roofed room, with bare walls blackened by smoke and
time, and entirely devoid of furniture. In its midst stood the coffin,
roughly made, and stuffed with nothing but half mouldy straw. In it
rested the corpse, beneath a grey pall, scarcely long enough to cover
the tall frame of the dead, who had been laid down in the clothes he
wore in life. At the lady's entrance two rats who had been gnawing at
his boots, jumped out of the straw into their holes. She did not notice
them. Her eyes were fixed upon the head of the coffin, where the pall
just showed a high white forehead with a deep scar down to the very
eyebrows. She placed the taper in a niche of the wall, and with her
remnant of strength approached to raise the pall. One glance at the
rigid face furrowed by the conflict of life and of death--and she sank
down beside the coffin.
Yet it was no swoon that mercifully shrouded her senses. It was only
that her legs would no longer support her; her mind was fully awake,
and her heart felt all its old wounds open, and begin to bleed and burn
afresh. She had fallen on her knees, her hands folded, her eyes fixed
on the pale face of her dead son, averted as it seemed from her in
indifference, in almost anger, and upturned to the black arch of the
roof. Oh! she would have given her life, the last poor remnant of her
days on earth, if those eyes could but have opened once more for one
farewell look, if those discoloured lips could once--only once--have
called her "mother!"
The sergeant who was waiting in the passage, was under the impression
that he heard a groan proceed from the chamber of the dead. What it
meant he did not know. If indeed it were her son he would not disturb
the mortal anguish of the mother. Suddenly he heard her steps approach
the door, and saw her coming out, the light in her hand, her head erect
as if no shock had bowed her down, her eyes strained and strange, but
meeting his.
"I have kept you waiting," she said, "which was unnecessary. One glance
is sufficient to reveal the truth to a mother: but it has shaken me. I
had to rest a little."
"So it is not he!" cried her faithful friend. "God be praised!"
"To all Eternity!" said she. "Let us go. The place is ghastly."
She went on hastily with the taper, and steadily descended the steps.
In the hall where the watcher sat, she put down the taper on the table,
and her hand no longer trembled.
"You will see," said the sergeant to the sleepy official, "that
to-morrow, not later than five, the sexton comes and bears the body to
its rest."
"The grave is already dug, sir," was the reply, "near the place where a
year ago Hans Frisdolin, the parricide was laid."
"Not so," returned the sergeant, "he shall have no dishonourable
burial, only as a stranger he must lie next to the wall. His French
girl has offered to pay the sexton. You can remind her, Killian."
"What I wanted to ask," the man broke in, "is whether the foreign lady
may have wine, and also a roast pigeon for which she longs. She will
pay for it, she says, and indeed she is a very good little thing, and a
pair of foreigners have been to pay her a visit in the tower and spent
three hours there. The warder turned them away at night, but the lady
was sadly put out, and she sent the warder to ask whether I would not
pay her a visit, for she found the time hang heavy."
"She must conform to the regulations," growled the sergeant. "To-morrow
she will be free, and then she can recommence her godless trade, as she
too surely will so soon as she is beyond our jurisdiction. Good-night,
Killian."
He turned to Frau Helena, who had gone to the door of the hall, and
there in deep shadow leant against the wall. While he led her out, and
on the way to her house, whither he accompanied her, he kept railing
against the dissolute creature, who might well have the unfortunate
dead on her conscience instead of throwing out baits for fresh victims
before the earth had closed over the last. He protested it removed a
stone from his heart to know that this Laporte was no Amthor, and he
hoped that the real Andreas might yet live to make up to his mother for
all that she had so christianly endured. The Council, however, was
truly indebted to the worthy matron for having given herself the
trouble of this late walk.
And so saying he took leave of the silent lady, and wished her a night
of refreshing sleep.
That wish was most certainly not realised. A storm arose that filled
the night with such wild uproar, that it seemed as if the very
earth trembled. In the room which had once been that of Andreas, a
window-shutter had been blown open, and now kept beating and flapping
against the wall. Lisabethli, who had fallen asleep, woke up in terror
at the sound. She saw her mother leave the room without a light, and
heard her go upstairs, and there was an end to that source of
disturbance as she fastened the shutter again. The young girl waited
awhile for her return, but fell asleep before it, and indeed she would
have waited in vain. For Frau Helena remained in the dark room above,
as though it were more tolerable to her to listen to the storm than to
the breathing of her child, who, in her happy dreams spoke of her Kurt,
and called him loving names.