in which they met Doctor Heller. "Only see, now!" cried the doctor, as
his wondering eyes fell upon Ella and her grandfather; "here are the
burgomaster and the little lady in our old dingy castle. To what happy
accident do we owe this honor?"
"Good day, doctor!" replied the burgomaster, friendlily. "I came to see
how your patients are doing, especially the new-comers."
"O, quite well,--excellently!" answered the doctor, gayly rubbing his
hands. "They are well lodged, and the greater number have already had
their wounds dressed; I will bring them all well through."
"O, take us to see them!" besought Ella, interrupting him somewhat
impatiently.
The doctor looked inquiringly at the burgomaster. "You must do as
she pleases," said the latter, clapping his hand upon the physician's
shoulder; while he added, jestingly, "I believe my little granddaughter
has some intention of dabbling in your trade; we will see how she will
manage it."
The doctor laughed. "Now judge for yourselves," said he, as he ushered
them into a spacious hall crowded with the wounded men; "are not those
soldiers as well lodged and cared for as if they were princes?"
The burgomaster shook his head as he replied gently: "Not quite so, but
they must be content, for it is the best we can do for them. I think,
however, that some improvements might be made; if, for example, we were
to repair the dilapidated rooms upon the other side of the building.
But where is Ella?" he exclaimed, as he missed the child from his side.
"There she is," said the doctor, somewhat vexed that his arrangements
had not met with a more cordial approval; "yonder, by the middle
window."
The burgomaster turned towards the spot indicated. Upon a heap of
straw covered with a coarse cloth, lay the apparently lifeless body
of a young man. A feeble sunbeam, which found its way through the
dingy window-panes, fell upon his pallid face, and revealed a deep,
gaping wound upon his forehead. Long black hair hung in disorder round
his temples. His pale lips, shaded by a dark moustache, were rigidly
closed, and his right hand was tightly pressed upon his breast, which
was not stirred by the faintest sign of breath. Ella hung over the body
with her little hands folded together, apparently absorbed in thought.
As her grandfather approached, she rose and said: "Only see! there he
is. I knew him at once!"
"Who is it? Whom have you recognized?" asked the astonished
burgomaster. "Certainly not this young man; I do not remember having
ever seen him before!"
"But I saw him," replied Ella, quickly, as she vainly endeavored to
hide her tears; "I saw him as he rode past our door, and he saw me too,
for he looked at me so piteously, as if he would have said, 'O do help
me!' And then he closed his eyes and fainted. But he is not dead, I am
sure he is not, grandfather! Let us take him home to my little room,
and he will soon recover. You shall have no trouble with him, nor my
dear mother either; I promise you that I will care for everything!"
The old gentleman shook his head, and, turning to the doctor, said:
"Judging from his uniform, this young man cannot belong to our army.
But why has not some one attempted to restore him to life? Apparently,
no efforts have as yet been made to aid him!"
"He is only a Russian!" replied the doctor, contemptuously; "there is
no need for any great hurry about him!"
"A Russian!" cried the astonished burgomaster.
"A Russian!" repeated Ella, horrified, as all the cruel scenes of which
she had been told, in which the Russians had played so prominent a
part, passed before her mind.
"Yes, a Russian!" said the doctor, coldly; "and now, my little lady, I
am sure you will renounce your design of having this man removed to
your grandfather's house. Besides, we can scarcely hope that his eyes
will ever again open; and if he can be helped," he continued, half
angrily, "it can be done as well here as elsewhere."
Ella again placed herself beside the wounded man; all her fear had
vanished; one look upon the pale young face had told her that all the
Russians could not be so bad as they had been represented.
"But how can this one ever do us any harm?" she cried, again renewing
her entreaties to her grandfather.
The old gentleman was at first very averse to granting her request, but
all the arguments which he drew from the almost universal prejudices
then existing against the young man's nation proved fruitless. Ella
begged and prayed, until he finally yielded. An arrangement was made by
which the wounded man was to be carefully borne to the burgomaster's
upon a litter, which the doctor promised himself to accompany. Ella and
her grandfather hastened home to prepare all for his reception.
The child proposed to give up her own little room to the stranger,
because, as she said, her flowers would please him, and he would be
less disturbed by the noise from the street.
"But where will you sleep yourself during so long a time?" asked Ella's
mother, who was evidently well pleased with her little girl's activity,
as she ordered her bed to be exchanged for another, hastily put away
her playthings, shut her books up in a closet, and, although everything
looked very orderly, still found something new to arrange.
"I?" replied Ella, somewhat embarrassed, and standing for a moment
irresolute; "I never thought of that!" Then, as if struck by a sudden
inspiration, she ran to her mother, threw her arms around her neck,
and cried, laughing: "Will you not, my dear mother, if I beg you right
hard, take me into your own room, me and my Atlas? Atlas only wants
a little place in a corner, and you can let my little bed stand near
yours, as it used to do. That will be delightful! I shall enjoy it
so much, for early in the morning I can put my head in between the
curtains, lift the cover very softly, and, before you know it, I will
be right close to you; then you will fold me in your arms, and we will
together pray to God never to part us."
The child thus prattled on until the flow of her discourse was
interrupted by the arrival of the unfortunate man, for whose sake she
had been making all these preparations.
"Ha!" cried the doctor, as he entered the room, "I can believe that one
might be well satisfied here; it looks like a little paradise. Come
in, my men, and help me to lay this poor fellow upon the bed,--so.
Now you may go.--But, most gracious lady, your most obedient! Pardon
me, that in the confusion I did not observe you sooner. Your daughter
has brought plenty of trouble into your house; but the old gentleman
must bear all the blame; he should not have permitted himself to be so
easily persuaded."
"Do you then think, my dear doctor, that I have so little compassion?"
asked the mother, interrupting him. "Do you think that I would fear
a little discomfort when a suffering fellow-creature could be aided?
O, I would willingly make still greater sacrifices," she continued, as
she clasped the hand of the unconscious youth, "if I could recall life
into this young frame,--a life upon which may perhaps depend that of a
loving mother!"
The doctor laughed scornfully, and muttered, "As if a Russian could
have any feeling!" No one heeded this speech, and he continued: "The
wound upon the head is not dangerous; I have just dressed it, and there
will be no need of amputating the arm. He seems much exhausted from
loss of blood, for he has lain in this position during several hours."
At this moment the wounded man opened his eyes, which he, however,
immediately reclosed, as if blinded by the light; a slight tinge of
color flushed his pale cheek, and a faint sigh escaped his lips.
"He lives!" cried Ella, joyfully, "he has opened his eyes!"
But the doctor quickly laid his finger on his lips, in token that
entire quiet was necessary, while he at the same time shut out the
light by closing the curtains. A soft twilight thus pervaded the room,
and all looks were turned in expectation towards the young Russian, who
again opened his eyes, which rested upon those around him, at first
with an expression of doubt and amazement, but finally beamed with
the most delighted surprise. He sought in vain to rise; he sank back
exhausted upon the pillows, and equally fruitless were his efforts to
articulate a single word.
With some difficulty he seized upon Ella's hand, and pressed it to his
heart. This movement told the child very plainly that she had been
recognized. She could scarcely conceal her joy. But the physician, who
was anxious to avoid every emotion which might prove injurious to the
patient in his present state, desired that for a little while he should
be left alone. He promised to send an experienced nurse, and to call
again in the course of the day.
With difficulty could Ella be persuaded to leave her charge; she
followed her mother unwillingly, and gazed upon the wounded man until
the door of the apartment had closed behind her.
CHAPTER II.
THE LETTER.
One day, about four weeks after the occurrences related in our last
chapter, Madame von Herbart was seated in a neat little cabinet, where
she usually passed her morning hours, employed in the instruction of
her daughter. Through the open door, which offered a pleasant view
into a beautiful garden, whose trees and parterres were already tinged
with the brilliant hues of autumn, a whole flood of perfumes streamed
into the pretty apartment. The widow sat by her writing-table opposite
the door, with Ella by her side attentively listening to her mother's
words, while she related the history of the noble and high-hearted, but
unfortunate Grand-master, Henry von Plauen.
She graphically detailed to her daughter the shameful web of hatred,
envy, and treachery which caused the downfall of this truly great man.
With glowing words she painted the blackness of the ingratitude with
which he was rewarded by the very brethren of the order which he had
himself saved from ruin by his own exertions, and how they robbed him
of all his dignities and honors, keeping a close watch upon him until
death freed him from their persecution.
"O my child!" she continued, "how great is the sin of ingratitude! What
depravity does it not evince, to distress and injure those who have
only done us good! Such a deed is never suffered to pass unpunished by
a righteous Heaven, and the German order stands as a warning example
in history; for the overthrow of the high-hearted Plauen was the first
step in its own downfall."
"May I come in?" asked a gentle but manly voice, at this moment
interrupting the narrative of Madame von Herbart.
Ella sprang up from her seat, exclaiming, "It is Theodore!" and
hastened to the door.
The wounded Russian could scarcely be recognized in the young man who
now approached the widow with a light tread, had it not been for the
bandage which was still wound about his brow, and the sling in which
his left hand rested. Although his wounds were not yet entirely healed,
the short time had produced a wonderful change in his appearance.
Instead of the deathly pallor, a healthy red tinged his youthful
cheeks, his dull, sunken eyes had regained their fire; in short, a
change had taken place in his whole exterior, similar to that we may
often perceive when the caterpillar, after an apparent death, suddenly
throws off his ugly shell and flutters around us as a beautiful
butterfly.
"May I hope for your pardon, my gracious lady?" asked the young man,
in fluent but slightly foreign German, while he reverentially lifted
Madame von Herbart's hand to his lips. "May I hope that you will pardon
my boldness in having interrupted you?"
Madame von Herbart signed to him to be seated upon an arm-chair which
Ella had just left, and said kindly: "Your unexpected appearance gives
great pleasure. I congratulate you upon the happy termination of your
tedious captivity. You have not disturbed us, for Ella's school-hours
are just ended."
"You teach your daughter yourself?" asked the young Russian, somewhat
surprised.
"I am too jealous of the love of my only child," replied Madame von
Herbart, "to trust any stranger with so important a share of my
maternal duties. I often feel the insufficiency of my own acquirements,
but I shun no labor in learning all myself which I judge necessary for
my child; and thus, while forming her mind, I can at the same time
influence her heart. It is said," she added, smiling, "that all mothers
think their own children prodigies of loveliness; but though I flatter
myself this is not my case, for I know my Ella's faults, yet I venture
to hope that she will correct them all, through love for a mother who,
since her beloved husband's death, has found her purest and highest
happiness in the education of her daughter."
A dark shadow, a painful contraction, apparently caused by the
remembrance of past days, passed over Theodore's features. He
endeavored to conceal the depth of his inward emotion, and cried out:
"What is higher and holier in the world than a mother's love?" After
a moment's pause, he added, as if speaking to himself: "And what can
be more painful than to be forced to part with this heavenly affection
early in life?"
Madame von Herbart laid her hand upon the young man's head, as if in
the act of blessing him, and said tenderly: "Poor boy! you must have
been very young when you were torn from the protection of a loving
home, and thrust into the world. Scarcely yet a man, you have already
used the bloody sword which your feeble hands could hardly lift. Your
compatriots have deeply injured my country, and you, too, came as an
enemy upon the soil so dear to me; your wounds show that you wore your
arms as no idle ornaments, and yet I cannot hate you, for he who needs
our aid is no longer an enemy. You are a Russian, and you weep?" she
continued, gently raising the young man's head, which had fallen upon
his breast. "I have often heard that the Russians were all rough and
cruel, and yet you weep. O, do not be ashamed of your tears! they prove
the goodness of your heart, and justify the sympathy you have excited
within my soul."
"O my dear benefactress!" exclaimed Theodore, "where shall I find words
to thank you? Could you read my heart,--could you see how the thought
of the priceless benefits you have showered upon me fills my whole
soul,--how all my feelings are fused into an overwhelming sense of
gratitude, which I struggle in vain to express,--you would not wonder
at my silence. What true nobility did it not require to take an enemy
of your country into your own house, and nurse and treat him with such
kindness as you have shown to me!"
Theodore was in the highest state of excitement, and again pressed his
lips upon the lady's hand. She gently drew it from his clasp, and said,
mildly: "But how excited you are! What would Doctor Heller say, were
he to see you now? He would think that the fever, which during so many
weeks sent the blood seething through your veins, had again seized
upon you, and he would quickly withdraw his permission for you to leave
your chamber. Away with all thoughts which could be injurious to your
health! And now avail yourself of the Doctor's leave to take a stroll
in the garden; your little nurse, to whom you owe much more than to me,
shall accompany you."
"Ah, my little Ella!" cried Theodore, making an effort to appear more
calm than he really was, "if you will be my guide, the garden, which as
yet I have only seen from my windows, will seem to me doubly beautiful."
He then lifted up the child with his uninjured right arm, and kissed
and fondled her with a thousand expressions of his gratitude. "But now
we must be good children, and do as mamma bids," said he, at length,
taking Ella's hand, and leading her out into the garden. In a few
moments both had disappeared among the old trees.
We will leave the mother alone in her perfumed cabinet, where she drew
from one corner of her writing-desk a package of letters, written
to her by her late husband before their marriage; we will leave her
with these dearly treasured pages, already wet with so many tears, and
follow the youthful pair, whom we again find at the end of a shady
avenue of lindens.
"Take these pears," said Ella to her companion. "They are quite ripe,
and my mother planted the tree which bore them before she was as old as
I am now; she prefers pears to all other fruits. But you are not gay,"
she continued, looking true-heartedly into the young man's eyes. "Are
you thinking of your mother who is dead?"
She waited in vain for an answer, and then prattled on: "My father
is dead, too; he fought at Collin, under Ziethen, and as he led his
soldiers to seize upon a battery which was doing much harm to the
Prussians, a wicked bullet struck him. I cried a great deal, and mamma
always weeps whenever she thinks of him, and of my dear brother, who
soon followed my father. Ah, if Victor were only alive! He loved me so
dearly, and it was such a pleasure to play with him; but since God
took him to his beautiful heaven, I like best to stay with mamma and
my old grandfather. And when I want to run about awhile, I call Atlas,
papa's favorite dog, for I do not care to play with other children."
"And do you not like, then, to stay with me, my Ella?" asked the young
man.
"O yes, I do, indeed! I love you very much. While you were sick I
brought you the most beautiful flowers, and the finest fruit from the
garden, but you would scarcely ever taste it. Sometimes you seemed to
recognize me, and then you would press my hand to your lips, which
burned like fire; but you would often push me away from you, and speak
words which I could not understand. My grandfather told me it was your
mother tongue, and your delirium seemed to lead you again into the
battle, for you gave orders, and cried several times, 'Stand fast,
comrades! stand fast! We will show that we do not fear death! Let us
conquer or die!' Ah! then I often knelt down by the bed, and prayed God
that he would soon make you well."
"Did you do that? Did you, indeed, do that, my little angel?" asked
Theodore, drawing the child gently towards him, while his voice
trembled with emotion, and his eyes filled with tears.
"Certainly I did it," replied Ella; "and that is why you are well now,
for God has promised that, if we call upon him when we are in trouble,
he will save us; and as you could not pray yourself, I did it for you."
The child ceased; they had just reached the end of the garden, and
stood upon a little mound adorned with firs and birches, near a
pleasure-house which bore some resemblance to a hermit's hut.
"Listen, Theodore; you do not seem to like our garden," said Ella
reproachfully, while she laid her hand upon the door, "and yet every
one says it is the prettiest in the city, and even strangers often ask
for permission to walk through it. But only come in here, and then you
will surely exclaim, How beautiful! how glorious!"
The child led the young man through the open door with a triumphant
air, as if quite sure of the impression to be produced. He looked
round attentively. The walls of the little building were clothed with
soft, velvety moss, which still retained its hue of tender green;
many-colored shells were scattered round, some forming the initials
of beloved names, and others disposed in fanciful arabesques. The
tessellated floor was strewn with fresh flowers. On one side stood
a comfortable sofa, and upon a low stool near the door lay a piece
of woman's work, evidently just commenced. The whole made a most
favorable impression upon the beholder; nevertheless Theodore looked
as if disappointed, and was about making this confession to his little
friend, when she suddenly closed the door, and they stood together in
the darkness.
"Will you play hide and go seek with me, Ella?" cried Theodore,
laughing.
But scarcely had he uttered these words, when the opposite wall opened
as if by magic, and a loud cry of surprise and pleasure burst from his
lips, while his eyes rested upon the lovely scene which he suddenly saw
before him. Ella stood near with folded arms, and sought to read in
his face whether his delight was as great as she had anticipated.
Apparently satisfied with her observations, she stepped nearer to him,
and, lightly mounting upon the stool, threw her left arm round his
neck, and pointed with her right hand towards the valley, stretching
beyond the houses of the little city lying at their feet.
[Illustration: ELLA AND THEODORE.]
"In our garden," she said seriously, "the trees are variously planted
and trimmed; the blooming hedges are carefully trained, and my dear
grandfather even had a pond made, because I am so fond of the water;
but do you see all this? Our good God arranged it all himself, and
therefore is it much more beautiful than our garden. How pure and clear
is the water of that little lake! See how the birches, with their white
stems and long hanging branches, are reflected in its shining mirror;
and how the cows pasture and the sheep play so gayly upon the green
meadows. Look beyond the lake at that great forest of fir-trees; how
quietly the villages rest in its shadow, as if they thought themselves
quite safe under its protection!"
Her hand still pointed towards the distant view, although Theodore's
eyes had long ceased to follow its direction, and rested upon the
features of the little speaker. Ella turned towards him, and, as if
ashamed, cast down her eyes. "Are you not glad," she said softly, "that
God has made it all so beautiful?"
Theodore made no answer; he laid his hand upon his troubled breast and
sighed: "What a struggle will it cost me to tear myself away! And yet I
cannot remain much longer."
"You are going away!" cried Ella, looking up in dismay. "You are going
to leave us!" she repeated mournfully, bursting into tears.
Theodore forced a smile to pacify the child. He kissed the bright drops
from her cheek, and said: "Fear nothing, my little one, I will not
leave you yet. And for love of you I will again become a child; neither
past nor future shall trouble me; I will yield myself entirely to the
joy of the present, without looking backwards or forwards. But now, my
little angel, leave me for a while!"
With these words he led the child to the door, threw himself exhausted
upon the sofa, laid his head upon the soft cushion, and, overcome by
his unusual excitement, was soon in a deep sleep.
He had thus rested about an hour, when he was awakened by a loud voice,
which cried: "Now, my young sir! what does all this mean? Window
and door both open, and there you lie and sleep. Do you call that
reasonable?"
The speaker was Frederick, the burgomaster's old servant.
"I have been looking for you everywhere during the last hour, and
if the little lady had not told me you were here, I might have been
looking for you yet. I have a letter for you, brought by a little boy,
who begged me to place it in your own hands. I have looked at the paper
carefully on both sides, and as there is nothing on it but a line of
crooked pot-hooks, that can harm nobody, I may as well give it to you.
Here it is."
Theodore rose slowly, took the note from the servant's hand, gazed long
upon the characters, and finally sank back, pale as death, and gasping
for breath.
"What a curious people these Russians are!" muttered Frederick,
angrily, while he gazed upon the young man with evident displeasure.
"God knows I cannot bear a Russian, as, indeed, no true-hearted
Prussian can; still, I thought they were men, but this one is no
stronger than an old woman. He hangs his head as if the hens had picked
up all his crumbs, and is so feeble that he can scarcely stand upon
his feet, all because of a couple of sorry blows and a flesh wound,
that one of us would not have cared a fig for. Yes, yes, Mr. Ensign,
or Mr. Captain, or whatever your title may be, you need not look so
incredulous, for I was in both the first Silesian wars, and have stood
many a charge when blood fell fast as rain, and the Austrians fled
until it was a joy to see them. And when younger men shall be wanting,
I may perhaps venture my old bones once more, especially if there
be any chance of fighting the Russians.--But, old fool that I am,"
continued he, interrupting himself, "when I once begin on that subject
my heart is on my tongue, and both run away from me as if Captain
'Quickstep' had command.--Nay, that shall not happen again!--But now,
right about, my young sir! Wheel round and march into the house. Lay
your hand on my shoulder, and I will help you to-day, even if you are a
Russian. Any one, to hear you talk, would really think you the child of
German parents. Where did you learn our language?"
"From my mother," replied Theodore, faintly and abstractedly; "from my
mother, who was educated in Germany."
The manner in which these words were spoken deprived the servant of the
courage to ask any more questions, and both silently entered the house.
Theodore went immediately to his own chamber, which he left no more
during the whole day.
* * * * *
A week passed, and Theodore, whose health had before so rapidly
improved, seemed to be a changed man since the reception of that
letter, of which no one knew anything but Frederick, from whom Theodore
had with difficulty succeeded in obtaining a promise of secrecy.
No one had ever seen him very gay, but now he would sit for hours
motionless in the same spot. No smiles or sounds of joy parted his
lips; and when he spoke, the tone of his voice betrayed a deep and
hidden sorrow. When he was asked the cause of his altered demeanor,
he would shake his head, his eyes would fill with tears, and the most
painful expression would rest upon his features.
Ella, especially, made him many reproaches, for he had promised her to
be very gay; she beset him unceasingly with her sympathizing questions,
to which he usually returned no answer.
"Are you ill again?" she asked one day, after having exhausted all
possible conjectures, to which a dry "No" had been the sole response.
"Ah, yes indeed! ill, ill!" replied Theodore, so quickly that one
might easily see how glad he was to have found any explanation for his
strange conduct. "Yes, dear Ella, believe me, I am indeed ill. But
leave me now. I shall soon be better."
The deep sigh which accompanied these words betrayed that he himself
placed no confidence in his improvement. From this time forward the
child persecuted Doctor Heller with prayers to make her poor Theodore
well again. The Doctor felt the young man's pulse, and, after a
significant shake of the head, he ordered him a quantity of bitter
drugs, which the patient regularly threw out of the window. The
physician, however, remarked, after a few days, that his medicine had
done wonders, and Theodore already looked much better; an opinion in
which Ella and her mother did not coincide.
CHAPTER III.
THE VISIT.
Early in the spring, Madame von Herbart had received an invitation
from Madame von Carly, a friend of her youth, who owned a beautiful
country-seat several miles distant from the city, to bring Ella, and
spend a few days with her in the country. Madame von Herbart had
declined the invitation, because she was averse to leaving her home and
her aged father, who, during her absence, would be entirely alone. In
the month of October, when but few fine days could still be hoped for,
Madame von Carly came herself to the city, to carry away her friend,
and would listen to no excuses.
"You must go with me, Maria," she said; "there is no use to say
anything; I will dine with you, and immediately after dinner you will
drive out with me. Here, Ella! come here, my child! How tall you grow!
And always in your little white dresses! They would look well upon my
children! I believe five minutes would be long enough to change them
into many-colored garments. Come now, talk a little; you are as dumb as
a fish!" She continued, rapidly: "Will you not be glad to go to Sergow,
and see my Louisa, and Freddy, and William? Both the wild boys long to
see you; they call you always their white rose, and made me solemnly
promise not to return without you."
"But, my good Lina," said Madame von Herbart, who had vainly striven
until now to check this stream of words, "perhaps our visit will not be
agreeable to your husband?"
"What an idea!" cried Madame von Carly. "When I invite you to see me,
it is well understood that he will esteem it an honor to receive you.
Did you never hear the French proverb: 'Ce que femme veut, Dieu le
veut!'[1] That is the best and most sensible one I know, and I never
fail every day to make a little sermon on this text. But now, make
haste! Pack up your things, whatever you may require, and let us dine
early, that we may soon be off. The ground in the city burns under my
feet. I should die if I were forced to live here a week; I always feel
as if I could not draw a free breath until I am beyond the gates.--But
I had almost forgotten. How is your father, Maria? The last time I saw
him, I did not feel so pleasantly as usual in his society. This eternal
talk about war and battles, glorious sieges and new taxes, seems to
have thrown a black veil over his cheerful humor. He, too, must go with
us to Sergow; one week with us, and the blues would soon be driven out
of him. But where is the old gentleman? I would like myself to make the
proposition to him."
"He is not at home," replied Madame von Herbart, "and I do not expect
him in less than two hours. My poor father is now very busy; he has
so many cares, and so much trouble, that we must not wonder if he
sometimes looks rather serious. He could not possibly leave the
city, and you would only embarrass him were you to invite him, for he
always finds difficulty in saying 'No.' Please do me the favor not to
attack the old gentleman. Be goods now, Lina," begged she, in her most
persuasive tones; "promise me that, and I will go with you, and remain
three days, although it will be very hard for me to leave my poor
father so long alone."
"Good! So let it be!'" said Madame von Carly, after a moment's
hesitation. "You see I am a good-natured fool, and am always so easily
persuaded. But now go and make your arrangements. Ella will entertain
me during your absence."
Madame von Herbart left the room, wishing heartily that the three days
were over. She dreaded the visit, for her friend's impetuosity and
excitable temper always inspired her with a certain fear. She was never
more polite or more considerate of her words than when with Madame von
Carly, but she never felt herself more helpless, or more restrained
in her freedom of both thought and action, than when in that lady's
company.
She feared still more for her daughter than for herself, and would
willingly have spared Ella the three days' torment. Since her brother's
death, the little girl had lost all desire to play with other children,
and, although she was very patient and yielding, willingly enduring
any annoyance for her mother's sake, it was impossible for her to make
friends with Madame von Carly's wild slips, as she herself called her
children, and always cheerfully to endure the pranks which the little
pests were continually playing upon her.
While Madame von Herbart was packing up, and at the same time wondering
over the peculiar mode of education practised by her friend,--whose
rude, uncultured nature could not endure that a child should be taught
to say "Good morning," and "Thank you,"--Theodore entered.
"Are you going away?" he asked, hastily, pointing to the half-filled
travelling-bag. "And Ella, too?"
He spoke these words with a strange eagerness, and as Madame von
Herbart replied with an affirmative nod, he seemed to be almost glad at
this intelligence, for a burning red flushed his cheeks, and his eyes
glowed: a moment later, all these signs of satisfaction had vanished.
He grew very pale, and his voice trembled as he asked: "Are you really
going away?"
"Yes, dear Theodore!" replied Madame von Herbart, quietly; "to-day, in
a few hours. It seems strange to you, because you have seen how seldom
I leave the house; and I only go now because I cannot avoid it. But,"
she added, smiling, "the whole journey will only last three days; on
Thursday evening I shall be again at home, and will be very glad to
find you much better than I leave you."
Theodore made no answer; he laid his hand upon his heart, as if he felt
a sharp pain, then slowly turned away, and left the room.
He did not appear at dinner, immediately after which the carriage was
announced, and Madame von Carly hastened her friend's departure. Ella
most tenderly embraced her old grandfather. "Will you think of me,
grandfather?" she asked, lovingly. "You must often think of me whilst
I am away; but do not be sad, for I will soon return, and bring you
something very pretty.--But where is Theodore?" she cried, looking
round in surprise; "I almost believe he would let us depart without
saying 'Farewell.' Naughty Theodore! I will not love him any more."
Apparently to prove the truth of her last words, she ran to the door
of the young man's room, opened it a little, and called in, softly:
"Theodore! dear Theodore! are you asleep? O do come out! We are going
now."
"Already!" was the answer; "so soon!" A moment after, the door was
thrown open, and the young man stood before the startled child, pale as
death, and so agitated that Ella drew back half in fear. "Ella! Ella!"
he cried, in a voice of the deepest anguish. He then bent down to the
little one, and pressed her so tightly to his beating heart that she
uttered a faint scream. Not heeding, or indeed seeming to hear this, he
led her into the adjoining apartment, placed her on the sofa, knelt at
her feet, and, stroking back the curls from her brow, looked long and
earnestly into her dark eyes. They seemed to possess for him a magnetic
power, so fixed and immovable was his gaze. The life appeared to be
gradually leaving his frame, and he remained thus bowed and motionless
until he was aroused from his lethargy by a loud call of "Ella! Ella!"
"I must go!" cried the child, springing up. "Did you not hear my mother
calling me?"
"O, only one minute longer!" begged Theodore. He seized a knife, cut
off one of Ella's long silken curls, and, hastily concealing his prize,
embraced her again, and held her so fast that she could not escape.
He kissed her hands repeatedly; great tears streamed slowly down his
cheeks, and a few broken words escaped his lips. Again was heard the
voice of Madame von Herbart. "Ella!" she said, in a tone of gentle
reproach, "did you not hear me call you?"
"Ah! indeed I could not come," replied the child, raising her eyes, as
if imploring pardon, to her mother's face, "Theodore held me so fast!"
The arm which had so tightly held her relaxed, and she was again free.
The young Russian's eyes were fixed, as if on vacancy; he turned
towards Madame von Herbart, knelt at her feet, and laid her hand upon
his burning brow.
"What does all this mean, Theodore?" she asked, surprised and alarmed;
"your head burns, and you are fearfully excited. You are certainly more
unwell than you have permitted us to think you. Speak, I pray you, and
relieve our anxiety. Is it bodily illness alone which has thus overcome
you?"
Theodore looked at his benefactress; he heard her words, but they bore
no meaning to him. He again pressed her hand convulsively; he moved his
lips as if about to speak, but only uttered some inarticulate sounds.
He then sprang to his feet, and, casting a long and agonized look upon
Ella, he hastily fled through the open door, as if he had been pursued
by evil spirits.
Madame von Herbart shook her head sadly, as she turned to leave the
room. Uneasy and oppressed, she entered the carriage with Ella, where
her friend, who had been long waiting for her, received her with open
reproaches.
"One would think you were going to make a voyage round the world,"
said Madame von Carly, sulkily, "you make such a fuss about going a
hundred paces from your own door. Such lamentable parting scenes always
seem very comical to me, especially when the long separation which has
occasioned so many tears is to last three whole days! Your father will
not die if he does not see you until Thursday, and the young Russian
can live till then without your care. What a useless burden you have
laid upon your shoulders! I certainly should not have acted so, had I
been in your place. It is sheer folly to waste so much kindness and
sympathy upon a wild foreigner, who, I am quite sure, laughs in his
sleeve at all you have done for him, and will reward you by the most
shameful ingratitude. And an enemy of your country, too,--a Russian! It
frightens me only to hear one named. I would not give a Russian a glass
of water to save his life!"
"O, do not say so!" replied Madame von Herbart, earnestly. "If I had
not known you so many years, I might at this moment doubt your good
heart; indeed, such sentiments would induce any one to believe you
pitiless and unfeeling. Before offering assistance to the suffering,
must we then ask, Who are you? What is your creed? or, In what country
were you born?--I am really sorry to hear such words from your lips,
and the more so that you are not alone in your prejudices against the
Russians; they are shared by nearly all my countrymen, and I cannot
esteem it an honor to them. I will readily agree that the Russians are
far behind the Prussians in cultivation, and even that many may possess
the faults attributed to them; but that gives us no right to contemn
a whole nation. It seems to me there is such self-exaltation and such
pride in this cold, obstinate mode of judging, which not only outrages
reason, but renders us forgetful of our duty as Christians. We should
certainly esteem our fellow-men innocent, until they have given us
proofs to the contrary.--Theodore ungrateful!" she continued, after a
moment's pause; "O, if he could be so, where should we seek for truth
and faith among men? If his candid face be that of a hypocrite; if his
voice, apparently tremulous with excess of gratitude and feeling, could
speak words of falsehood and treachery, in whom could we confide? No!
no! it is not possible. So fair a form could not conceal so black a
soul!"
Madame von Herbart had spoken more vehemently than was her usual
custom, and her cheeks glowed, for she felt herself wounded and
misjudged. What she considered as a sacred duty towards her fellow-men,
had been regarded as the foolish simplicity of a weak good-nature; and
one whom daily intercourse, and the apparent candor and excellence of
his character, had rendered dear to her heart, had been assailed by the
most injurious suspicions.
In a few moments, however, she regained her tranquillity, and said,
gently: "Even if you have judged rightly, and Theodore could be
ungrateful, we will never regret what we have done for him: the hope of
thanks was not our motive. Truly, neither my father, my daughter, nor
myself had any thought of earthly reward when we opened our house and
our hearts to the poor, forsaken, wounded Russian. But perhaps we had
better say no more about it."
"Well, well!" replied Madame von Carly, hastily, "as you please; I am
sure it is quite indifferent to me."
Thus saying, she leaned back in one corner of the carriage, and began
to count the trees by the way-side. Her friend, however, soon succeeded
in diverting her from this rather uninteresting occupation. She asked
concerning the harvests; whether her dairy had been productive this
year; and if her garden had yielded her as much as usual.
Madame von Carly was a notable housekeeper, and entered minutely into
all the details of her household economy, and the management of her
farm. She talked much, and, on this subject, knowingly. Her servants
were all discussed, from her own maid to the lowest scullion; and, from
her account, seemed to be endless sources of trouble, through their
ignorance, stupidity, or evil dispositions.
Madame von Herbart listened most patiently, only now and then
endeavoring to interpose a word in exculpation of the frailties of
human nature, and by the time they reached Sergow her friend was
again quite reconciled with her, and in the best of humors. It was,
indeed, no easy task to maintain this good understanding unbroken
during three whole days; but Madame von Herbart succeeded better than
she had anticipated. On Thursday afternoon, as she was making her
preparations for returning home with Ella, Madame von Carly could not
conceal her emotion, and said, as she bade her farewell: "Indeed, I do
not understand how it is that I love you so well. You can do what you
please with me; I may sometimes be a little hasty, but I can never long
feel angry with you."
She then kissed Ella affectionately, gave her a basket of fine fruit
for her grandfather, and a bunch of those tiny roses, whose brilliant
coloring, and the late season at which they bloom, render so precious
in the autumn to all lovers of flowers.
"I will give two roses to grandfather," said the child to her mother,
when they were again upon the public road, "and two to Theodore. How
glad he will be! He is so fond of flowers, especially of roses."
She had scarcely uttered these words, when a sudden wind swept over her
beautiful blossoms, and scattered all their tender leaves.
"Ah!" sighed Ella, "my joy is soon over! If my old nurse had seen that,
she would have said that it boded no good. But you have taught me not
to heed such omens."
"And yet this time," replied the mother, "your old Catherine would not
have been quite wrong; for this first rude blast is but the forerunner
of many storms which are to follow soon; winter will soon be here, and
you know your good grandfather is never so well when the weather is
cold."
"Oh!" cried Ella, clapping her hands, "I see the city towers, and even
some of the houses! There is the great tree in our garden!"
She was so delighted at this discovery, that she wished to leave the
carriage and walk, fancying she could thus sooner reach her beloved
home. Finally they stopped before the door, and Ella sprang joyfully
into the old servant's arms. Atlas welcomed her with every sign of
delight. "Aha, my good doggy, did you miss me, too?" she cried,
stroking his shaggy coat.
The great dog leaped up, and placed both paws on her shoulders, so that
she could scarcely free herself. Then quickly running up the steps,
she was greeted by the burgomaster, who tenderly folded his beloved
grandchild to his heart.
"God be thanked!" he cried, embracing his daughter. He then led both
his dear ones into his room, whence gratefully streamed the inviting
perfumes of the coffee he had had prepared for them. They soon laid
aside their wrappings.
"But where is Theodore?" was Ella's first question.
"Is he better?" added Madame von Herbart, anxiously.
"By and by you can judge for yourselves," replied the old man slowly.
Ella again embraced her grandfather, caressing him as if she had been
many months away from him. She placed his great arm-chair near the
table, arranged the cushions, and, seating herself upon his knee, began
the narration of all her adventures. While her clear eyes gazed into
his face, she remarked the downcast appearance of the old man, who
seemed to have no relish for his little grandchild's prattle, to which
he usually listened with such delight.
"Just see now, mother!" cried the child in a tragi-comic tone of voice,
"does not grandfather look to-day exactly like the upper bailiff, when
the hail spoiled his best rye-field?"
Madame von Herbart looked up as she handed her father his cup, and was
startled by the sorrowful expression of his countenance.
"What is the matter, my dear father?" she cried, hastening to his side.
"Has anything disagreeable happened? O, do tell me quickly!"
"It is nothing, my daughter!" answered the burgomaster, endeavoring to
soothe her; "several little circumstances have transpired, which have
somewhat disturbed my equanimity."
"And am I not to know what has troubled you?"
"Wherefore not, my child? You must learn them some time, and perhaps it
would be better to do so at once. You know I hate all useless secrecy
and mysteries. Listen, then. Our king was defeated on the 13th; the
news came yesterday, and has been confirmed to-day. He has been forced
to pay dearly for his unhappy obstinacy. All his generals warned and
implored him to leave the camp which he occupied on the heights of
Hochkirch. But he would not be persuaded; he could not be induced to
quit his dangerous position, although it was within gunshot of the
enemy, because he did not think the Austrians would venture to attack
him. The consequence was, that, on the night of the 13th, the crafty
Daun left his intrenchments as noiselessly as possible, and surrounded
the sleeping Prussians. The watchful Ziethen, who had anticipated such
a step, was ready to receive him, fully armed, with all his men. The
others were soon aroused, and assembled as best they could in the
darkness of the night. All must allow that great order and discipline
reign in our army, and thus, although compelled to abandon their
position, they performed prodigies of valor, and the enemy did not dare
to follow them. But they were forced to leave all their baggage behind
them, and many a brave fellow lost his life. The noble Keith and Franz
of Brunswick are both dead."
"Well, father," said Madame von Herbart consolingly, "we must rejoice
that the king is still alive. If he has this time been unfortunate
through his own fault, he will soon be able to retrieve his
losses.--But what sad news have you still to tell us? I can see that
you have not yet unburdened your heart."
"You are right," replied the burgomaster reluctantly; "and what I
have to tell you will distress the child even more than it does you.
If my little Ella will only be reasonable, she will see that it was
inevitable; I have often tried to prepare her mind for it. Theodore has
gone away! You will never see him again!"
"Theodore gone!" cried Ella, "that is impossible! O tell me,
grandfather, you are surely jesting! Is it not so? You only want to
tease me a little."
The old man shook his head, and said: "He left our house secretly
yesterday evening."
Ella wept quietly.
"He is ungrateful, too, then!" sighed Madame von Herbart, "and Lina was
right. I never could have believed that he would have deceived us!"
"Do not blame him," replied the burgomaster; "I cannot condemn him. I
had long observed the inward struggle which was so clearly depicted in
his countenance. Believe me, he suffered greatly in being forced to
leave us."
Thus saying, he drew a letter and a small package from his pocket,
which he gave to his daughter, adding: "There, take them! I found them
both upon my bed when I awoke this morning. He must have placed them
there himself, for I remember distinctly that some one kissed my hand
several times when I was in a state between sleeping and waking. The
action aroused me; but when I looked up, all was quiet, and I thought
it must have been a dream."
Madame von Herbart silently took the letter and broke the seal; she
read and read, and seemed as if she could not finish it. Her hand
trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. Ella glided behind her chair,
and looked over her shoulder; but in vain did she wipe her eyes, she
could not distinguish a syllable.
"O dear mother!" she cried, "read it aloud; I can see nothing, and I
would so like to know if he thought of me."
The mother read as follows:--
"I can no longer remain in a house in which, after so many stormy
days, I had again found peace, and felt so happy. My father's brother,
who is the general of the division of the Russian army to which I
belong, has learned my wonderful escape, and discovered my retreat. He
has secretly sent me an order to join him as soon as my wounds would
permit; and as a soldier I must obey, although my heart bleeds at the
sad necessity.
"How has my poor heart already suffered. How soon in life was I not
forced to learn that happiness is a rare sojourner among men. I lost
my father before I could lisp his dear name; of course I was too young
to know the loss I had sustained, and the less, because my beloved
mother redoubled her care and love towards the poor orphan child who
lay so helpless in her gentle arms. The boy clung to this one stay
with all the passionate tenderness of his character; his mother's
eyes were the stars which guided him through the labyrinth of life;
nothing could so grieve him as to see them veiled and darkened through
his fault. But he was forced with the deepest sorrow to see that the
brightness of his stars was fading. His mother's cheek became ever
more and more transparent, the words which fell from her pale lips
grew fainter and weaker, her wearied feet refused to bear the light
weight of her frail figure, and finally--O Heaven! how was it possible
that I survived her death?
"Men say of many a bitter sorrow, that it is unendurable; and yet I
have lived through the deepest anguish. I know no pang of which it
may be truly said, that no one has ever borne it,--that all efforts
are in vain, and a speedy death the sole refuge. And thus will I
strive to overcome the agony which now rends my heart.
"Farewell, honored lady, in whom I have found the image of my lost
mother so vividly renewed. Your gentle voice will ever echo through my
soul. Nothing can efface from my memory the kindness with which you
have overwhelmed a stranger, and an enemy to your native land; the
remembrance will be most dear to me so long as I shall live.
"And you, my little Ella, who would not suffer the glance of a poor
wounded man, beseeching you for aid and compassion, to pass unheeded,
and who have so often prayed to God for his recovery,--how could I
ever forget you? You can scarcely comprehend how two whole nations can
feel so bloodthirstily towards one another, how their murderous rage
can exceed that of wild beasts, and all because their rulers disagree.
You will shudder when you hear that I have again entered the ranks
of that army so hated by your countrymen; but I am sure that you will
shed more than one tear for the sake of one to whom the memory of the
happy days passed near you is so precious. I have but one request to
make, and that is, that you will always wear the little cross which
accompanies this letter. My mother hung it round my neck when I was a
child, since when I have kept and worn it as a sacred relic. Whenever
your eyes fall upon it, remember your own kindness and my gratitude.
"And what will you say, my venerable benefactor, when, in the morning,
instead of me, you will only find this letter? Will you condemn my
conduct? I must see you once more, and again press my lips upon your
hand! Once more will I give free vent to my feelings, and then must I
stifle my emotions, be again a man, and fearlessly bare my breast to
the blows of fate.
"Farewell!
"THEODORE."
A deep stillness reigned in the little circle, only broken by Ella's
faint sobs. The old burgomaster also dried a quiet tear.
"And that was a Russian!" he cried finally, rising to hide his emotion.
Madame von Herbart opened the package; it contained a fine gold chain,
to which was suspended a cross of the same metal. She hung it silently
round her daughter's neck, and Ella found upon her mother's bosom a
free place to weep out all her sorrow.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] A woman's will, God's will.
CHAPTER IV.
GRATITUDE.
Two years had passed; the war still continued, and the position
of the Prussian king had not altered for the better. Many of his
bravest officers and best generals lay dead upon the battle-field, or
were captives in the enemy's hands. Gold and men were both becoming
scarce, and still no prospect of peace. But Frederick never thought
of yielding; he had determined to conquer or perish in the attempt.
His people felt with him, and each Prussian looked with confidence up
to his king. All thought that their sovereign would find some means
of extricating himself with honor from the unequal struggle. History
teaches us that this belief was well founded, for nothing could have
been more surprising and favorable to Frederick, than the final
conclusion of the seven years' war.
On the 1st of August, 1759, Frederick lost a battle upon the heights of
Kunersdorf. Notwithstanding the personal danger which he had himself
incurred, and the loss of many of his bravest men, the allied Russians
and Austrians obtained a complete victory. Kleist, the renowned poet,
whose verses breathe the most tender and gentle feelings, gave the
highest proof of his courage by the sacrifice of his life. No death
among the many which marked that bloody day excited more sympathy than
his; and the Russians, among whom he had fallen, honored his memory by
a solemn funeral. A Russian officer laid his own sabre upon the hero's
coffin, saying: "Such a man should not be buried without a sword!"
The allies succeeded in gaining possession of Berlin, where a citizen
named Gotkowski distinguished himself by the sacrifice of nearly all
his private fortune in the service of his fellow-citizens. Experience
soon taught the Prussians that their neighbors, the Saxons, were much
more to be feared, as far as cruelty and the destruction of personal
property was concerned, than the Russians. They forgot how Frederick
had spared the treasures of art in Saxony; and, entering his palaces,
they destroyed everything which came within their reach,--furniture,
mirrors, tapestries, pictures, and marble statues.
The allies occupied Berlin during eight days. The news then came that
Frederick was approaching the city in person, and they speedily left
it to join the main body of the army, or to seek security in safer
positions. Their course, however, was everywhere marked by devastation
and ruin, and woe to the town or village through which their march lay.
* * * * *
One of these detachments of Saxons and Austrians, belonging to the
rear, left the highway in order to make a predatory excursion upon
the little city already well known to us. Early in the morning,
these warriors, who were in such haste to flee before the coming of
Frederick, poured through the open gates. They brought with them tumult
and confusion, plundered the houses indiscriminately, and seemed
determined to wash away the stain left upon their honor by their hasty
retreat, in the blood of the defenceless citizens. On all sides were
heard the cries of women and children, mingled with rude imprecations
and scornful laughter.
They advanced farther and farther into the city, and had already
reached the market-place.
Doctor Heller arrived breathless before the grocer's door, and cried:
"Aha, Master Brother! here they are, at last. You have often said
that you would rather permit a whole regiment of Austrians to range
through your house, than harbor a single Russian;--and you will now
have an opportunity of seeing how gently they will proceed with you.
They won't leave a tile upon your roof; I tell you, they are worse than
Wallenstein's bands, who, as you know, were not remarkable for their
tenderness and consideration."
The honest grocer stood before his brother-in-law, the very picture of
despair. His whole body trembled; he pulled off his white nightcap,
and cast a melancholy glance upon his great, flowered dressing-gown, as
if he feared he would soon be forced to part from this beloved garment.
He finally cried out, in a stifled voice, "Ah, my beer! All my beer!"
"Nonsense!" said the Doctor. "Beer here, beer there,--have you lost
your senses? Where is your ready money? Have you at least hid that?"
The grocer shook his head, and seemed to be fairly benumbed, body and
mind, with terror.
"What folly!" cried the Doctor, angrily. "Quick! Go at once into your
house, and throw it all into the well. In five minutes it may be too
late!"
So saying, he led the old man with him through the open door. It was
indeed full time, for the lawless soldiery were rapidly approaching,
destroying all they could not carry away with them. Chairs and mirrors,
glass and porcelain, were thrown from the windows in every direction.
The robbers fell upon all the casks of wine and brandy which they could
find, and their potations only increased their fury and recklessness.
They greeted with loud cries of joy the fine stock of spirits of all
kinds which they found in the house of our friend, the grocer. They
knocked the heads out of the barrels until the whole cellar was afloat,
and they could almost have swum in the nectar, which they freely
imbibed. The poor grocer fled from room to room until he reached the
highest attic, whence he discovered with horror that a thick smoke was
beginning to rise from many parts of the city, and that the inhabitants
were in vain endeavoring to quench the flames.
Suddenly the hoofs of a whole troop of cavalry were heard upon the
stone pavement; and, swift as a whirlwind, a band of horsemen rode
past, with a noble-looking young leader at their head. They stopped
at the market-place, dismounted, and hastened into the plundered
dwellings, driving out the robbers, who, not yet comprehending this
sudden diversion, left their prey, and fled. Renewed efforts were made
to extinguish the flames, and the citizens gazed in silent wonder
upon their unexpected deliverers, who were most actively engaged
in rendering all the assistance in their power, and were constantly
encouraged by their leader to new efforts.
No one knew who the officer was. "He is no Prussian!" "He does not
speak German with his soldiers!" "How young he is!" And "How stately
he looks upon his black steed!" Such exclamations were heard upon all
sides, interrupted by the questions: "But who is he?" "Whence comes
he?" "Does no one know him?"
The young officer gave no heed to the curious glances everywhere turned
upon him; he forced his way with considerable difficulty through the
crowd, and finally stood before the burgomaster's door. He sprang from
his horse, threw the bridle to one of his attendants, and, hastening
up the steps, entered the open door,--already filled with the brutal
soldiery laden with booty. He scarcely saw them, but hurried on, and
soon reached Madame von Herbart's room, where he found no one, but was
horrified at the devastation. The windows were broken, the curtains lay
torn upon the floor, the furniture was scattered in every direction,
and the drawers and closets all rifled. He opened a second and a third
door: everywhere he found the same waste and desolation, but not a
living creature. Pausing, at length, uncertain which way to turn, a
faint, half-stifled cry for help fell upon his ear: "Mother! O mother!
save me! He will kill me!"
"Ella, I come!" cried the young man. He hurried through several halls
and apartments. But one more door divided him from that imploring
voice; he flung it open, and stood an instant as if petrified. He
found himself in the once charming little cabinet; but how looked it?
The chairs were in pieces, the writing-table overturned; books and
papers were scattered upon the floor, mingled with flasks of wine, some
broken, others half emptied, and the carpet, which had been in many
places wantonly cut and torn, dripping with the contents. Amid these
wrecks, a young maiden knelt before a great, bearded soldier, whose
left hand had seized upon her long, dark locks, while his right held a
loaded pistol.
"Will you give me the chain?" cried the soldier at this moment, not
having observed the entrance of the stranger; "I ask you for the last
time. You have hid all your gold and silver, like rascals as you are.
We find nothing that can be of any use to us. Give me the chain at
once, or I will shoot you down!"
"O leave me the chain!" implored the maiden, looking up with tearful
eyes into the monster's face; "you have taken everything from us! I
cannot give you the cross,--it is a dear remembrance."
A loud bark from a dog was heard before the garden door. The rude
soldier hastily loosed his grasp from the hair, and seized upon the
gold chain which had excited his cupidity, that he might tear it from
the young girl's neck. He suddenly felt himself thrust back, and a
voice cried in his ear: "Hold, you wretch! You shall not lay the end of
your finger upon her!"
A swift sabre-stroke gleamed through the air, and cleft the Austrian's
skull. But at the same moment a loud report was heard, and the young
officer fell mortally wounded upon the floor. "Ella!" he cried, "Ella!"
"Theodore!" exclaimed the maiden, who at the sound of his voice had
sprung to her feet. Uttering a loud cry, she threw herself upon the
prostrate form of the friend whom she had recognized, and whose warm
blood streamed over her dress.
At this moment, Madame von Herbart and her father rushed into the room.
"Ella!" cried the mother, joyfully, as her eye fell upon her child; "O
God be thanked! I was in despair, when I could find you nowhere."
But Ella made no answer.
"Are you hurt?" asked the anxious mother; "your clothes are covered
with blood!" So saying, she sank half fainting by her daughter's side.
"By whom are you kneeling, Ella?" said the old burgomaster, who had by
this time come quite near.
"It is Theodore, our Theodore!" sobbed the young girl, in a voice of
despair.
"Yes, it is Theodore, your Theodore," repeated the young man,
endeavoring to rise. "He wished to see you yet once more. Holy angels
guided his steps,--and he came in time. O," he continued, with a
failing voice, kissing the hand with which Madame von Herbart sustained
his head, "O, how happy I feel now! I know that I am dying, but I have
been enabled to show you my gratitude: I have preserved your native
city! I have saved your child!" He paused an instant, as if exhausted,
and then said, "Ella, your hand!"
The maiden placed it within his own, and he pressed it convulsively.
"Think of me often!" he continued; "and believe me, even the Russian
has a heart, which guards the memory of past benefits--until it breaks!"
His head sank; his eyes were fixed; he uttered one last sigh, and his
soul had fled.
"He is dead!" said Madame von Herbart, after a few moments of deep
silence. She wept bitterly; it seemed to her as if she had lost a
member of her own family.
Ella's sorrow was unspeakable. Nothing could convince her that Theodore
was really dead. Even when Dr. Heller came and examined his wounds,
assuring them that the best marksman could not have taken surer aim,
and that the ball had pierced the young Russian's heart, she could
not entirely resign the hope that he would again awake from his deep
slumber. She strove to warm his cold hands, to breathe new life into
his rigid frame. All her efforts were in vain; her touching prayer,
that he would open his pale lips and speak but one single word to her,
remained unheard. They were obliged to force her with gentle violence
from the bloody corpse.
* * * * *
Theodore's funeral was most solemn; old and young gathered together
to join in the last procession. Each one shed a grateful tear in his
memory; even the old grocer, Bolt, was seen following the coffin,
deeply moved.
A white marble monument marked the place of his burial. The inscription
consisted in the name, "THEODORE"; and beneath were carved these simple
words, "We meet again." No flaunting paragraph proclaimed his deed,
which was more surely treasured in the memory of many a feeling and
grateful heart than it could have been upon the cold stone.
Long, long years after these occurrences, when Madame von Herbart and
her father rested quietly by the young Russian's side, a tall female
form might often be seen busied among these graves. She adorned them
with fresh wreaths; carefully trained the flowers she had planted
upon them; and when she slowly turned to leave them, and re-enter her
solitary home, she would raise her tearful eyes to heaven, and say, "We
shall meet again, my dear ones!"
THE END.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes
Minor punctuation errors corrected on pages 148 and 261.
Original spellings have been retained including the use of both
door-way and doorway.
On page 260, "apparenly" was changed to "apparently." (...lay the
apparently lifeless body...)
End of Project Gutenberg's Molly and Kitty, by Olga Eschenbach and Maria Burg