The morning dawned upon the very ideal, as far as weather was concerned,
of a Christmas-day. A bright winter sun shone out just vividly enough to
make everything look genial and pleasant, and yet not with sufficient
warmth to mar the pure, unbroken surface of the crisp, white snow, which
lay like a never-ending white lawn upon the ground, and glittered in
myriad silver flakes upon the leaves of the sturdy evergreens.
I am afraid the baron had not had a very good night; at any rate, I know
that he was wide-awake at an hour long before his usual time of rising.
He lay first on one side, and then on the other, and then, by way of
variety, turned on his back, with his magenta nose pointing
perpendicularly towards the ceiling; but it was all of no use. Do what
he would, he couldn't get to sleep, and at last, not long after
daybreak, he tumbled out of bed and proceeded to dress.
Even after he was out of bed his fidgetiness continued. It did not
strike him, until after he had got one boot on, that it would be a more
natural proceeding to put his stockings on first; after which he caught
himself in the act of trying to put his trousers on over his head.
In a word, the baron's mind was evidently preoccupied; his whole air was
that of a man who felt a strong impulse to do something or other, but
could not quite make up his mind to it.
At last, however, the good impulse conquered, and this wicked old baron,
in the stillness of the calm, bright Christmas morning, went down upon
his knees and prayed.
Stiff were his knees and slow his tongue, for neither had done such work
for many a long day past; but I have read in the Book of the joy of
angels over a repenting sinner.
There needs not much eloquence to pray the publican's prayer, and who
shall say but there was gladness in heaven that Christmas morning?
The baron's appearance down-stairs at such an early hour occasioned
quite a commotion. Nor were the domestics reassured when the baron
ordered a bullock to be killed and jointed instantly, and all the
available provisions in the larder, including sausage, to be packed up
in baskets, with a good store of his own peculiar wine.
One ancient retainer was heard to declare, with much pathos, that he
feared master had gone insane.
However, insane or not, they knew the baron must be obeyed, and in an
exceedingly short space of time he sallied forth, accompanied by three
servants carrying the baskets, and wondering what in the name of fortune
their master would do next.
He stopped at the cottage of Wilhelm, which he had visited with the
goblin on the previous night. The labors of the fairies did not seem to
have produced much lasting benefit, for the appearance of everything
around was as wretched as could be.
The poor family thought that the baron had come himself to turn them out
of house and home; and the children huddled up timidly to their mother
for protection, while the father attempted some words of entreaty for
mercy.
The pale, pinched features of the group, and their looks of dread and
wretchedness, were too much for the baron.
"Eh! what! what do you mean, confound you? Turn you out? Of course not:
I've brought you some breakfast. Here! Fritz--Carl; where are the
knaves? Now, then, unpack, and don't be a week about it. Can't you see
the people are hungry, ye villains? Here, lend me the corkscrew."
This last being a tool the baron was tolerably accustomed to, he had
better success than with those of the fairy carpenters; and it was not
long before the poor tenants were seated before a roaring fire, and
doing justice, with the appetite of starvation, to a substantial
breakfast.
The baron felt a queer sensation in his throat at the sight of the poor
people's enjoyment, and had passed the back of his hand twice across his
eyes when he thought no one was looking; but his emotion fairly rose to
boiling when the poor father, Wilhelm, with tears in his eyes, and about
a quarter of a pound of beef in his mouth, sprang up from the table and
flung himself at the baron's knees, invoking blessings on him for his
goodness.
"Get up, you audacious scoundrel!" roared the baron. "What the deuce do
you mean by such conduct, eh? confound you!"
At this moment the door opened, and in walked Mynheer Klootz, who had
heard nothing of the baron's change of intentions, and who, seeing
Wilhelm at the baron's feet, and hearing the latter speaking, as he
thought, in an angry tone, at once jumped to the conclusion that Wilhelm
was entreating for longer indulgence. He rushed at the unfortunate man
and collared him. "Not if _we_ know it," exclaimed he; "you'll have the
wolves for bedfellows to-night, I reckon. Come along, my fine fellow."
As he spoke he turned his back towards the baron, with the intention of
dragging his victim to the door.
The baron's little gray eyes twinkled, and his whole frame quivered with
suppressed emotion, which, after the lapse of a moment, vented itself in
a kick, and such a kick! Not one of your _Varsovianna_ flourishes, but a
kick that employed every muscle from hip to toe, and drove the worthy
steward up against the door like a ball from a catapult.
Misfortunes never come singly, and so Mynheer Klootz found with regard
to the kick, for it was followed, without loss of time, by several dozen
others, as like it as possible, from the baron's heavy boots.
Wounded lions proverbially come badly off, and Fritz and Carl, who had
suffered from many an act of petty tyranny on the part of the steward,
thought they could not do better than follow their master's example,
which they did to such good purpose, that when the unfortunate Klootz
did escape from the cottage at last, I don't believe he could have had
any _os sacrum_ left.
After having executed this little act of poetical justice, the baron and
his servants visited the other cottages, in all of which they were
received with dread and dismissed with blessings.
Having completed his tour of charity, the baron returned home to
breakfast, feeling more really contented than he had done for many a
long year. He found Bertha, who had not risen when he started, in a
considerable state of anxiety as to what he could possibly have been
doing. In answer to her inquiries, he told her, with a roughness he was
far from feeling, to "mind her own affairs."
The gentle eyes filled with tears at the harshness of the reply;
perceiving which, the baron was beyond measure distressed, and chucked
her under the chin in what was meant to be a very conciliatory manner.
"Eh! what, my pretty, tears? No, surely. Bertha must forgive her old
father. I didn't mean it, you know, my pet; and yet, on second thoughts,
yes, I did, too." Bertha's face was overcast again. "My little girl
thinks she has no business anywhere, eh! Is that it? Well, then, my pet,
suppose you make it your business to write a note to young Carl von
Sempach, and say I'm afraid I was rather rude to him yesterday, but if
he'll overlook it, and come take a snug family dinner and a slice of
the pudding with us to-day----"
"Why, pa, you don't mean--yes, I do really believe you do----"
The baron's eyes were winking nineteen to the dozen.
"Why, you dear, dear, dear old pa!" and at the imminent risk of
upsetting the breakfast table, Bertha rushed at the baron, and flinging
two soft white arms about his neck, kissed him--oh! how she _did_ kiss
him! I shouldn't have thought, myself, she could possibly have had any
left for Carl; but I dare say Bertha attended to his interests in that
respect somehow.