Days of sorrow now passed over the castle, hard to endure by every one
who dwelt within its walls. Disease lurked in the family like canker in
a flower. Since the dark hour when the dying son had been carried into
his father's presence, the baron had never left his room. His small
measure of remaining strength had been broken; grief consumed mind and
body. He would sit silently brooding throughout the livelong day, and
neither the entreaties of Lenore nor the companionship of his wife
availed to rouse him. When the fatal tidings were first communicated to
the baroness, Anton had feared that the fragile thread that bound her to
the earth would burst, and for weeks Lenore never left her side; but, to
the astonishment of all, she rallied, her husband's state so claiming
her care that her own sorrows and weakness seemed to pass away. She
appeared stronger than before, and solely occupied with tending her
husband: she was able to sit up for hours beside his chair. It is true
that the doctor used to shake his head privately, and to tell Anton that
this sudden improvement was not be trusted. As for Lenore, for the first
few weeks after her brother's death she was invisible to all; and now,
whenever she emerged from the sick-room, it was to answer inquiries for
the invalids, or to send, through Anton, messages to the doctor.
Meanwhile, beyond the walls, a stormy spring had passed, succeeded by an
unsettled summer. True, the property had no longer to dread the horrors
of civil war, but the burdens that the times imposed fell heavy on the
establishment. Daily the blast of trumpet and beat of drum was
heard--castle and village alike had their complement of soldiers to
support, and these were frequently exchanged. Anton had enough to do to
provide for man and horse. The slender resources of the estate were soon
exhausted, and, but for Fink's laborers, they never could have got on.
Then there were all manner of interruptions to the work of the farm.
More than one acre had been trodden down at the time of the siege. The
men had become bewildered by passing events, and had lost their relish
for regular employment. But, on the whole, order was maintained, and the
plans laid down early in the spring were being carried out. The
irrigation of the meadow-land prospered still better; the number of gray
jackets went on increasing; and this body-guard of Herr von Fink were
acknowledged throughout the district as a stout set, with whom it was
well to be on good terms. Fink himself was often away. Having made and
renewed the acquaintance of several officers, he threw himself heart and
soul into military matters, and shared as a volunteer in the encounter
in which the insurgents had been defeated. His defense of the castle had
made him a marked man: he was equally hated and admired by the two
conflicting parties.
Weeks had passed away since the relief of the castle, when Lenore
appeared at the house door, before which Anton and the forester were
holding a consultation. She looked across the court-yard, where a pump
now stood, and over the palings, from which the earth had been cleared
away, to the landscape, now bright with the fresh green of early summer.
At last she said with a sigh, "Summer is come, Wohlfart, and we have not
noticed it!"
Anton looked anxiously at her pale face. "It is delightful now in the
woods," said he. "I was at the forester's yesterday, and since the rain
the trees and flowers are in full beauty. If you would but agree to go
out!"
Lenore shook her head. "What do <i>I</i> signify?" said she, bitterly.
"At least hear the news which the forester has just brought," continued
Anton. "The man you shot was the wretched Bratzky. You did not kill him.
If you have reproached yourself on that score, I can set your mind at
rest."
"God be praised!" cried Lenore, folding her hands.
"That night when the forester came to us, he thought he had seen the
rascal sitting in the bar with his arm tied up. Yesterday he was taken
prisoner to Rosmin."
"Ay!" said the forester; "a bullet does a fellow like him no harm; he
aims higher than that;" and he laid his own hand on his throat with a
significant gesture.
"This has weighed on me day and night," whispered Lenore to Anton; "I
have looked on myself as one under a curse. I have had the most fearful
dreams and visions of the man as he fell, hands clenched, and the blood
gushing from his shoulder. Oh, Wohlfart, what have we gone through!" And
she leaned against the door, and fixed her tearless eyes on the ground.
A horse's hoof rung on the pavement. Fink's bay was led out.
"Where is he going?" hurriedly asked Lenore.
"I do not know," replied Anton; "he has been a great deal out of late; I
see nothing of him the whole day long."
"What is he doing here with us?" said Lenore; "this unhappy house is no
place for him."
"If he would only be careful," said the forester. "The Tarow people are
mad at him; they have sworn to send a bullet after him, and he always
rides alone, and late at night."
"It is in vain to warn him," added Anton. "Do be rational for once,
Fritz," cried he, as his friend came out; "do not go riding alone, or,
at least, not through the Tarow estate."
Fink shrugged his shoulders. "Ah! so our Fräulein is here! It is so long
since we have had the pleasure of seeing you, that our time has hung
rather heavy on our hands."
"Listen to the advice of your friends," replied Lenore, anxiously, "and
beware of dangerous men."
"Why?" returned Fink; "there is no straightforward danger to apprehend;
and in times like these, there is no guarding against every stupid devil
who may lurk behind a tree; that would be taking too much trouble."
"If not for your own sake, think of the anxiety of your friends,"
implored Lenore.
"Have I still friends?" asked Fink, laughing; "I often fancy they have
become faithless. My friends belong to the class who perfectly
understand the duty of composure. Our worthy Wohlfart, perchance, will
put an extra handkerchief in his pocket, and wear his most solemn mien
if the game goes against me; and another companion in arms will console
herself still more readily. Out with my horse!" cried he, swinging
himself on the saddle, and with a slight bow galloping away.
"There he goes, straight to Tarow," said the forester, striking his head
as he watched Fink disappear.
Lenore returned in silence to her parents' room.
But late at night, long after the castle lights were all put out, a
curtain was drawn back, and a woman listened anxiously for the sound of
horses' hoofs. Hour after hour passed away, and it was morning before
the window closed as a rider halted at the door, and, whistling a tune,
himself took his horse to the stable. After a night of watching, Lenore
hid her aching head in her pillows.
Thus months passed away. At length the baron, leaning upon his
daughter's arm and on a staff, ventured out into the open air, to sit
silently in the shadow cast by the castle walls, or to listen for every
trifle which might afford possible scope for fault-finding. At these
times his dependents in general would go a good deal out of their way to
avoid him, and as Anton never did this, he was not unfrequently their
scapegoat. Every day the baron had to hear, in return for his
cross-questioning, "Mr. Wohlfart ordered this," or "Mr. Wohlfart forbade
that." He eagerly found out what orders were given by Anton, that he
might countermand, and all the bitterness and disappointment
accumulated in the spirit of the unfortunate nobleman were concentrated
in an impotent hatred to his agent.
Fink, for his part, took little heed of the baron, merely contracting
his brows when he observed his quarrelsomeness toward Anton, and never
saying more than "he can not help it."
Karl was the one who got on best with the baron, never calling him any
thing but captain, and making an audible military salute whenever he had
any thing to say, and this pleased the blind man. Indeed, the first
token of sympathy for others which the baron evinced was elicited by the
bailiff. A garden chair had been warped by the sun, and seemed on the
point of coming to pieces. Karl, as he passed by, took it up, and with
his clenched fist hammered it together. "You are not striking with your
right hand, I hope, my good Sturm?" inquired the baron.
"Just as it happens, captain," replied Karl.
"You should not do so," remonstrated the invalid. "An injury like yours
should make you careful; very often the pain returns after long years;
you can not be sure that this may not be your case in after-life."
"A short life and a merry one, captain," replied Karl; "I do not look
forward."
"That is a very useful fellow," said the baron to his daughter.
The corn ripened, the green fields turned to gold, the cheerful sounds
of harvest began. When the first loaded wagon rolled into the farm-yard,
Anton stood by the barn and watched the sheaves put in. He was joined by
Lenore, who inquired, "What of the harvest?"
"As far as we could contrive to sow this year, the returns have not been
bad. At least, Karl seems pleased with the crop, which exceeds our
calculations," cheerfully returned Anton.
"Then you have one pleasure, Wohlfart," said Lenore.
"It is a pleasure for all on the farm; look at the steady activity of
the men. Even the idle work well to day. But what pleases me most is
your question; you have been so estranged from the farm, and all that
concerns the property."
"Not from you, my friend," said Lenore, looking down.
"You must be ill!" eagerly continued Anton. "If I dared, I could scold
you for having thought so little about your own health all this time;
your pony is become quite stiff. Karl has often been obliged to use it,
that it might not lose the use of its limbs."
"It may go like the rest," cried Lenore; "I shall never mount it again.
Have pity upon me, Wohlfart! I often feel as if I should lose my senses;
every thing in the world has become indifferent to me."
"Why so savage, Fräulein?" said a mocking voice behind her. Lenore
started and turned round. Fink, who had been absent more than a week,
had joined them. "See that you send off Blasius," said he to Anton,
without taking any further notice of Lenore. "The rascal has been drunk
again; he flogs the horses till the poor beasts are covered with wales.
I have a great mind to give them the satisfaction of seeing him punished
before their eyes."
"Have patience till after the harvest," replied Anton; "we can not spare
him now."
"Is he not a good-natured man in other respects?" timidly suggested
Lenore.
"Good-nature is a convenient name for every thing that is morbid,"
replied Fink. "We call it good-nature in men and sensibility in women."
He looked at Lenore. "How has the poor pony sinned, that you will never
ride him more?"
Lenore blushed as she replied, "I find that riding gives me headache."
"Indeed!" said Fink, tauntingly; "you once had the advantage of being
less delicate. I do not think this lachrymose mood is suitable for you;
you will not lose your headache thus."
Lenore, quite subdued, turned to Anton: "Have the newspapers arrived? I
came to ask for them for my father."
"The footman has taken them to the baroness's room."
Lenore turned away with a slight inclination, and went back to the
castle.
Fink looked after her and said to Anton, "Black does not become her; she
is much faded. Hers is one of those faces which only please when they
are full and blooming."
Anton cast a dark glance at his friend. "Your behavior toward her has
been so strange for the last few weeks, that I have often felt indignant
at it. I do not know what your purpose may be, but you treat her with a
<i>nonchalance</i> which does not offend her alone."
"But you too, Master Wohlfart, eh?" asked Fink, looking Anton full in
the face. "I was not aware that you were this lady's duenna too."
"This tone will not avail you," replied Anton, more quietly. "I do right
to remind you that you are behaving worse than ungently toward a noble
creature who has now a double claim upon the tender consideration of us
all."
"Be good enough to pay her that consideration yourself, and don't
trouble yourself about me and my manner," returned Fink, dryly.
"Fritz," cried Anton, "I do not understand you. It is true, you are
inconsiderate."
"Have you found me so?" interpolated Fink.
"No," replied Anton. "Whatever you have been to others, to me you have
always shown yourself generous and sympathizing; but for this very
reason it pains me inexpressibly that you should have thus changed
toward Lenore."
"Leave that to me," returned Fink; "every one has his own way of taming
birds. Let me just add, that if your Fräulein Lenore be not soon shaken
out of this sickly way of life, she will be utterly ruined. The pony
alone will not do it, I know; but you, my son, and your melancholy
sympathy, won't do it either; and so we will just let things take their
course. I am going to Rosmin to-day; have you any commands?"
This conversation, although it led to no estrangement between the
friends, was never forgotten by Anton, who silently resented Fink's
dictatorial tone, and anxiously watched his bearing toward Lenore, whom
Fink never sought nor avoided, but simply treated as a stranger.
Anton himself had some unpleasant experiences to go through. Much as he
avoided communicating what was unwelcome to the baron, there was one
thing he could no longer spare him, and that was the settlement of his
son's debts. Soon after Eugene's death, numberless letters, with bills
inclosed, had arrived at the castle, been given by Lenore to Anton, and
then by him all made over, Sturm's note of hand included, to Councilor
Horn, whose opinion and advice he craved to have respecting them. This
opinion had now arrived. The lawyer did not disguise that the note of
hand given by young Rothsattel to the porter was so informal that it
amounted to nothing more than a mere receipt, and did not in any way
bind the baron to pay the debt. Indeed, the sum was so great that
immediate payment was out of the question. Then Anton himself had lent
the young prodigal more than eight hundred dollars. As he drew out
Eugene's note of hand from among his papers, he looked long at the
handwriting of the dead. That was the sum by which his imprudence had
purchased a share in the fate of this noble family. And what had this
purchase brought him? He had then thought it a fine thing to help his
aristocratic friend out of his embarrassments; now, he saw that he had
only abetted his downward course. He gloomily locked up his own note of
hand in his desk again, and with a heavy heart prepared for a
conversation with the baron.
At the first mention of his son, the baron fell into a state of painful
excitement; and when Anton, in the flow of his narrative, chanced to
call the departed by his Christian name, the father's pent-up anger
found a vent. He interrupted Anton by sharply saying, "I forbid you to
use that familiar appellation in speaking of my son. Living or dead, he
is still Herr von Rothsattel as far as you are concerned." Anton replied
with great self-command, "Herr Eugene von Rothsattel had contracted
debts to the amount of about four thousand dollars."
"That is impossible!" broke in the baron.
"The accredited copies of notes of hand and bills of exchange which
Councilor Horn has procured, place the matter beyond doubt. With regard
to the largest debt, one of nineteen hundred dollars, the certainty is
the more complete, as the lender, the father of the bailiff Sturm,
happens to be a man of peculiar uprightness. A letter to me from the
departed expressly acknowledges this obligation."
"Then you knew of this debt," cried the baron, with increasing anger,
"and you have kept it back from me! Is this your much-vaunted fidelity?"
It was in vain that Anton sought to explain the circumstances of the
case. The baron had lost all self-control. "I have long ago found out,"
said he, "how self-willed your whole line of conduct is. You take
advantage of my situation to get the disposition of all my means; you
make debts, you allow debts to be made, you draw money, you charge it to
my account, just as you see fit."
"Say no more, baron," cried Anton. "It is only compassion for your
helplessness which at this moment prevents me from answering you as you
deserve. How great that compassion is, you may infer from the fact that
I will endeavor to forget your words, and still ask you for your
decision: will you or will you not acknowledge your late son's debts,
and give legal security to the porter Sturm, or to his son, your
bailiff?"
"I will do nothing," cried the baron, beside himself, "that you require
of me in so peremptory and pretentious a tone."
"Then it is useless to speak to you any longer. I implore you, baron, to
reconsider the affair before you pronounce your final decision. I shall
have the honor of receiving your ultimatum this evening, and I hope that
ere then your sense of honor will have triumphed over a mood to which I
should not wish a second time to expose myself."
With these words he left, and heard the poor baron upsetting chairs and
tables in his wrath. Scarcely had he reached his room when the
confidential servant appeared, and asked for the deeds and
account-books, which had hitherto been kept in Anton's room. Silently
the latter made them over to the affrighted domestic.
He was dismissed, then--rudely and summarily dismissed; his uprightness
questioned: this breach was final. It was a bitter hour. Even now, while
indignantly pacing up and down, he felt that this insult offered him was
a punishment. True, his aim had been pure, and his actions blameless;
but the enthusiastic feelings which had led him hither had not availed
to establish proper relations between him and the baron--those of
employer and employed. It was not the freewill, the rational choice of
both, that had brought them together, but the pressure of mysterious
circumstances and his own youthful romance. And thus he had claims
beyond what his situation gave him, and by these the baron was oppressed
and cumbered.
These reflections were interrupted by Lenore's sudden entrance. "My
mother wishes to speak to you," she cried. "What will you do, Wohlfart?"
"I must go," said Anton, gravely. "To leave you thus, with your future
so uncertain, is what I never could have believed possible. There was
but one thing which could have induced me to part from you before I had
made over the property into stronger hands. And this one thing is come
to pass."
"Go!" cried Lenore, in utmost excitement. "All is crumbling around us;
there is no help to be looked for; even you can not save us; go, and
free your life from that of our sinking family."
When Anton joined the baroness, he found her lying on the sofa. "Sit
down beside me, Mr. Wohlfart," whispered she. "The hour is come in which
I must impart what, to spare myself, I have reserved for the hour when
we speak most openly to each other--the last hour spent together. The
baron's illness has so affected him that he no longer appreciates your
faithful help--nay, your presence aggravates his unhappy state. He has
so hurt your feelings that reconciliation is become impossible. Even
could you forget, we should consider the sacrifice you would be making
far too great."
"I purpose leaving the property on an early day," replied Anton.
"I can not," continued the baroness, "atone for my husband's offenses
toward you, but I wish to give you an opportunity of revenging yourself
in a manner worthy of you. The baron has attacked your honor; the
revenge that I, his wife, offer you, is to assist him to retrieve his
own."
Hitherto the baroness had spoken fluently, as was her wont in society;
now she stopped, and seemed to lack words.
"Years ago," she said, "he pledged his word of honor, and--and broke it
in a moment of desperation. The proof of this is probably in the hands
of some low man, who will use this knowledge to ruin him. That I should
communicate this to you at a time like this will show you the light in
which I regard your connection with our house. If it be possible to
restore his peace of mind, you, I know, will do it." She drew a letter
from under the pillow, and placed it in Anton's hand.
Anton took it to the window, and saw with surprise that it was in
Ehrenthal's handwriting. He had to read it twice before he could master
its contents. In a lucid interval the imbecile had happened to recall
his former dealings with the nobleman, and wrote to remind him of the
stolen notes of hand, to demand his money, and to threaten the baron.
The letter was full, besides, of laments over his own weakness, and the
wickedness of others; and what its confusion left unexplained was
cleared up by the copy of a note of hand--probably from the draught of
one agreed upon by the baron and Ehrenthal, for the letter mentioned the
existence of the original, and threatened to use it against the baron.
Folding up the letter, Anton said, "The threats which Ehrenthal connects
with the copy inclosed need not disturb you, baroness, for the note of
hand seems to have no signature, and the sum which it represents is a
small one."
"And do you believe that it is a true statement?" asked the baroness.
"I do," was the reply. "This letter explains to me much that hitherto I
never could understand."
"I know that it is true," whispered the baroness, in so low a voice that
Anton scarcely heard it, while a faint blush overspread her face. "And
you, Mr. Wohlfart, will you endeavor to get back the stolen papers for
us?"
"I will," replied Anton, earnestly. "But my hopes are small. The baron
has no existing claim upon these missing documents. They belong to
Ehrenthal, and an understanding with him is necessary in the first
instance. It will be difficult to bring about. And again, I very
imperfectly understand the circumstances, and must request you to try
and inform me of all you can connected with the robbery."
"I will endeavor to write to you," said the baroness. "You can draw up a
list of the questions you wish answered, and I will do so as well as I
can. Whatever may be the result of your efforts, I now thank you with
all my soul. Our house will never pay the debt it owes you. If the
blessing of a dying woman can shed a brightness over your future, take
it with you on your way."
Anton rose.
"We shall not meet again," said the invalid; "this is our final
leave-taking. Farewell, Wohlfart! this is the last time I shall see you
on earth." She held out her hand. He bent over it, and, deeply moved,
quitted the room.
Yes, she deserved to be called a noble lady. Her nature was noble, her
insight into the character of others clear, and her mode of recompensing
Anton's zeal dignified--very dignified. In her eyes, at least, he had
always worn a powdered wig and silver knee-buckles.
In the evening Fink's step was heard in the corridor, and, entering
Anton's room, he cried, "Halloo, Anton, what's up now? John slinks about
as if he had broken the great china vase; and when old Barbette saw me,
she began to wring her hands."
"I must leave this house, my friend," returned Anton, gloomily. "I have
had a painful scene with the baron to-day." He then proceeded to relate
it, and concluded by saying, "The position of this family was never so
desperate as now. They need the command of twenty thousand dollars to
avert new misfortunes."
Fink threw himself into a chair. "First of all," said he, "I hope you
availed yourself as little as possible of this fine opportunity of being
angry. We won't waste words over the scene; the baron is not
accountable; and between ourselves, I am not surprised. I have seen all
summer that you could not retain your romantic connection with this
family. On the other hand, it is plain that you are indispensable as
father-confessor to the ladies, and confidential man of business to all
the people around. And I need not tell you that your sudden departure
cuts up many a plan of mine. But now for the question, What will you
do?"
"I shall return as soon as possible to our own capital," replied Anton.
"There I shall be engaged for some time in the interest of the
Rothsattels. My official relations to them cease from this very day, and
as soon as the baron's family estate is sold, I shall consider my moral
obligations to them canceled."
"Good!" said Fink; "that's all right. If you ever set pen to paper again
on their behalf, it can only be from a sense of compassion. Another
point is that Rothsattel has brought a curse upon himself by his folly,
for without you things can't go on as they do for another month. Now,
then, Master Anton, comes the question, What will be done here?"
"I have thought of that the whole day," returned Anton, "and I do not
know. There is only one possible plan, and that is, that you should
undertake that part of my office which Karl can not fill."
"Thank you," said Fink, "both for your good opinion and your friendly
offer. You have been, excuse me, a good-natured fool. I am not of that
stamp. In a week's time I should be under the unpleasant necessity of
maltreating the baron. Have you no other plan to propose?"
"None," cried Anton. "If you do not with all your heart and soul
undertake the management of the property, all that we have effected
during the last year will be undone, and our German colony will go to
ruin."
"It will," said Fink.
"And you, Fritz," continued Anton, "have, through your intimacy with me,
become involved in its fate, and are thus in danger of losing too."
"Spoken like a book!" said Fink. "You run off and leave me here tied and
bound. I'll tell you what--wait for me here; I will first of all speak a
few words to Lenore."
"What are you going to do?" cried Anton, holding him fast.
"Not to make love," replied Fink, laughing. "You may rely upon that, my
boy!" He rang the bell, and requested an interview with Fräulein Lenore
in the drawing-room.
When Lenore entered with eyes red from weeping, and only maintaining her
composure by a strong effort, he politely advanced and led her to the
sofa.
"I abstain from commenting upon what has passed to-day," began he. "We
will assume that my friend's presence in the capital will be more
desirable for your family interests than his stay here. From all I hear,
this is really the case. Wohlfart leaves the day after to-morrow."
Lenore hid her face in her hands.
Fink coldly continued: "Meanwhile, my own interests require that I
should attend to them. I have spent several months here, and acquired a
share in this estate. For this reason, I request you to be the bearer of
a message from me to your father: I am prepared to purchase this estate
from the baron."
Lenore started and rose up, wringing her hands, and exclaiming, "For the
second time!"
"Be kind enough quietly to hear me," continued Fink. "I by no means
intend to play toward the baron the part of angel of deliverance. I have
less of the angelic nature about me than our patient Anton, and feel in
no way inclined to make any offer to your father that will not advance
my own interest. Let us look upon each other as opponents, and my
proposal, as it really is, prompted by self-love. My offer, then, is as
follows: The price of this estate, if reckoned at a sum that would
secure the baron from loss, would amount to more than a hundred and
sixty thousand dollars. I offer him the outside of what I consider its
present worth--that is, I will accept all its liabilities, and pay the
baron twenty thousand dollars in the course of twenty-four hours. Till
next Easter, I should wish to leave the castle in your hands, and to
remain here as your guest, if this could be arranged without
inconvenience. In point of fact, I should generally be absent, and in no
way burdensome to you."
Lenore looked wistfully in his face, which was at this moment hard as
that of a genuine Yankee; the remnant of her composure gave way, and she
burst into tears.
Fink quietly leaned back in his chair, and, without heeding her,
continued: "You see I offer you a loss, probably that of half of your
inheritance. The baron has been so precipitate in investing his capital
in this property that his family must needs suffer, for the market-price
of it, in its present state, would assuredly not exceed my offer. I
should be acting dishonorably if I disguised from you that, properly
cultivated, it would probably be worth twice as much in a few years'
time, but not, I am firmly convinced, under the baron's management. Had
Anton remained, it might have been possible, but that hope is over. I
will not conceal from you either that Wohlfart has even proposed to me
to occupy his situation."
Lenore, in the midst of her sobs, here made a deprecating gesture.
"I am glad," continued Fink, "that we are of the same mind on that
subject. I considered the proposal quite out of place, and rejected it
at once." He then stopped, and looked searchingly at the girl before
him, whose heart was torn by his words. He spoke harshly to her, he for
whose smile, whose kindly glance she would have done any thing. He
mentioned her father with ill-concealed contempt; his language was that
of a hard egotist; and yet his offer seemed a blessing in her helpless
condition, and with the second-sight of a loving heart she divined a
meaning in it that she did not fully understand, but which shone into
her abyss of sorrow like a distant ray of hope. However he might phrase
it, this offer proceeded from no ordinary motives; and her convulsive
sobs giving way to quiet tears, she tried to rise from the sofa, but
sank to the floor near his chair, the very picture of sorrowful
submission. "You do not deceive me," murmured she; "do with us what you
will."
A proud smile passed over Fink's face as he bent over her, wound his arm
round her head, pressed a kiss on her hair, and said, "My comrade, I
will that you should be free." Lenore's head fell on his breast; she
wept, softly supported by his arm; at last taking her hand, he pressed
it tenderly. "Henceforth let us understand each other. You shall be
free, Lenore, both as regards me and all others. You are losing one who
has shown you the self-sacrificing tenderness of a brother, and I am
glad that he is leaving you. I do not yet ask you whether you will share
my fate as my wife, for you are not now free to answer as your heart
dictates. Your pride shall not say me nay, and your 'yes' shall not
lessen your self-respect. When the curse that lies on your house is done
away with, and you are free to remain with or leave me, your decision
shall be made. Till then, an honorable friendship, comrade mine!"
And now Fink went on in another voice: "Let us think of nothing but our
property; dry up those tears, which I am not fond of seeing in your blue
eyes, and impart the business half of my proposal to your father and
mother. If not before, I request an answer by this time to-morrow."
Lenore went to the door, then returned, and silently offered him her
hand.
Slowly Fink returned to his friend's room. "Do you remember, Anton,"
asked he, "what you told me of your patriotism the day of my arrival
here?"
"We have often spoken on the subject since then."
"It made an impression on me," continued Fink. "This property shall not
fall again under a Bratzky's sceptre. I shall buy it if the baron
consents."
Anton started. "And Lenore?"
"She will share her parents' fate; we have just settled that." He then
told his friend the offer he had made.
"Now I hope that all will end well," cried Anton. "We shall see."
"What a purgatory for the sinner up stairs! I am glad I don't hear his
groans!" said Fink.
The following morning the servant brought each of the friends a letter
from the baron's room; the one of apology and thanks to Anton, the other
of acceptance to Fink. These they read, and then silently exchanged.
"So the matter is settled," cried Fink, at length. "I have run half over
the world, and every where found something to object to; and now I bury
myself in this sand-hole, where I must kindle a nightly fire to scare
the Polish wolf. As for you, Anton, raise your head and look before you,
for if I have found a home, you are going to where the best part of your
heart is; and so, my boy, let's go over your instructions once more.
Your first commission is to find certain stolen papers. Think, too, of
the second. Do what you can to secure to the family the little they have
saved in this quarter, and see that their old estate, when sold by
auction, is bid up to a price that will cover all mortgages. You must
go, I see, and I do not ask you to remain at present, but you know that,
under all circumstances, my home is yours. And now, one thing more. I
should be sorry to lose the bailiff; employ your eloquence to induce
your trusty Sancho to remain here, at least over the winter."
"No one knows as yet that I am leaving," replied Anton; "he must be the
first to hear it. I am going to him."
The dirty dwelling which Mr. Bratzky once occupied had changed, under
Karl's management, to a comfortable abode, which had only one drawback,
that of being too full of useful things, and smelling strongly of glue.
Often and often Anton had sat in it to rest and refresh himself by
Karl's cheery ways, and as he glanced at each familiar object, his heart
sank at the prospect of leaving his faithful, unexacting ally. Leaning
against the joiner's table in the window, he said, "Put your accounts
by, Karl, and let us have a serious word or two."
"Now for it," cried Karl; "something has been brewing for a long while,
and I see by your face that the crisis is come."
"I am going away, my friend."
Karl let his pen fall, and silently stared at the grave face opposite
him.
"Fink undertakes the management of the property, which he has just
bought."
"Hurrah!" cried Karl; "if Herr von Fink be the man, why, all's right! I
give you joy, with all my heart," said he, shaking Anton's hand, "that
things have turned out thus. In the spring I had other foolish notions.
But it's all regular and right now, and our farming is safe too."
"I hope so," said Anton, smiling.
"But you?" continued Karl, his face growing suddenly grave.
"I go back to our capital, where I have some business to do for the
baron, and then I shall look out for a stool in an office."
"And here we have worked together for a year," said Karl, sadly; "you
have had all the pains, and another will have the profits."
"I go back to my proper place. But it is of your future, not mine, dear
Karl, that I am now come to speak."
"Of course, I go back with you," cried Karl.
"I come to implore you not to do so. Could we set up together, we would
never part; but I am not in a position for this. I must seek another
situation. Part of the little I possessed is gone; I leave no richer
than I came; so we should have to separate when we got home."
Karl looked down and meditated. "Mr. Anton," said he, "I hardly dare to
speak of what I do not understand. You have often told me that my old
governor is an owl who sits on money-bags. How would it do," stammered
he, in embarrassment, working away at the chair with one of his tools,
"that if what is in the iron chest be not too little for you, you should
take it; and if any thing can be made of it--it is very presumptuous of
me--perhaps I might be useful to you as a partner. It is only an idea,
and you must not be offended."
Anton, much moved, replied: "Look you, Karl, your offer is just like
your generous self, but I should do wrong to accept it. The money is
your father's; and even if he gave his consent, as I believe he would,
such a plan would involve great risk. At all events, his substance would
be better invested in your own calling than in one you might enter into
out of love for me; so it is better for you, my friend, that we part."
Karl snatched his pocket-handkerchief, and blew his nose violently
before he asked, "And you won't make use of the money? You would be sure
to give us good interest?"
"Impossible," replied Anton.
"Then I'll go back to my father, and hide my head in some hayloft about
home," cried Karl, in high dudgeon.
"That you must not do," said Anton. "You have become better acquainted
with the property than any other; it were a sin to throw that knowledge
away. Fink wants a man like you; the farm can not possibly spare you
till next summer. When we came here, it was not to benefit ourselves,
but to improve the land. My work is over; you are in the midst of yours,
and you will sin against yourself and your task if you forsake it now."
Karl hung his head.
"One thing that used to distress me was the meagre salary that the
estate could afford you; that will be changed now."
"Don't let us speak of that," said Karl, proudly.
"We ought to speak of it," returned Anton, "for a man does wrong when he
devotes the best gifts he has to an occupation that does not adequately
repay him. 'Tis an unnatural life; and good results can scarcely be
expected, take my word for that. I therefore beg you to remain, at least
till next summer, when, owing to the extended scale of farming
operations, an experienced inspector may occupy your post."
"Then," said Karl, "may I go?"
"Fink would always like to keep you; but should you leave him, remember,
Karl, our frequent conversations during the past year. You have become
accustomed to a life among strangers, and have all a colonist's claims
to a new soil. If higher duties do not urge you home, your place is to
remain here as one of us. If you leave this estate, buy land from the
Poles. You, with the plowshare in your hand, will be still a German
soldier, for the boundary of our tongue and our customs is gaining upon
our enemies." So saying, he pointed to the east.
Karl reached out his hand, and said, "I remain."
When Anton left the bailiff he found Lenore at the door. "I am waiting
for you," cried she; "come with me, Wohlfart; while you remain here, you
belong to me."
"If your words were less friendly," replied Anton, "I might fancy that
you were secretly glad to get rid of me, for I have not seen you so
cheerful for a long time. Head erect, rosy cheeks; even the black dress
has vanished."
"This is the dress I wore when we drove together in the sledge, and you
admired it then. I am vain," cried she, with a mournful smile. "I wish
that the impression you carry away with you of me should be a pleasant
one. Anton, friend of my youth, what a mystery it is that, on the very
first day free from care that I have known for years, we must part. The
estate is sold, and I breathe again. What a life it has been of late
years! always anxious, oppressed, humbled by friend and foe; always in
debt, either for money or services: it was fearful. Not as far as you
were concerned, Wohlfart. You are my childhood's friend; and if you were
in trouble of any kind, it would be happiness to me if you would call
me, and say, 'Now I want you; now come to me, wild Lenore.' I will be
wild no longer. I will think of all you have said to me." Thus she ran
on in her excitement, her eyes beaming. She hung on his arm, which she
had never done before, and drew him in and out of every building in the
farm-yard. "Come, Wohlfart, let us take a last walk through the farm
which was once ours. We bought this cow with the white star together,"
cried she; "you asked for my opinion of her, and that pleased me much."
Anton nodded. "We neither of us were very sure about it, and Karl had to
decide."
"What do you mean? You paid for her, and I gave her her first hay,
consequently she belongs to us both. Just look at this lovely black
calf. Mr. Sturm threatens to paint its ears red, that it may look a
perfect little demon." She knelt down beside it, stroked and hugged it,
then suddenly starting up, she cried, "I don't know why I should make so
much of it; it is mine no longer; it belongs to somebody else." Yet
there was mirth in her tone of pretended regret. "Come to the pony now,"
she said; "my poor little fellow! He has grown old since the day when I
rode after you through our garden."
Anton caressed the favorite, who turned his head now to him, now to
Lenore.
"Do you know how it happened that I met you on the pony?" said Lenore to
Anton over its back. "It was no accident. I had seen you sitting under
the shrubs. I can tell you so to-day; and I had thought, 'Heavens! what
a handsome youth! I will have a good look at him.' And that's how it
happened as it did."
"Yes," said Anton; "then came the strawberries, then the lake. I stood
there and swallowed the strawberries, and was rather inclined to tears;
but through it all my heart was full of delight in you, who rose before
me so fair and majestic. I see you still in fluttering muslin garments,
with short sleeves, a golden bracelet on your white arm."
"Where is the bracelet gone?" asked Lenore, gravely, leaning her head on
the pony's mane. "You sold it, you naughty Wohlfart!" The tears stood in
her eyes, and she stretched out both hands to him over the pony's back.
"Anton, we could not remain children. My heart's friend, farewell!
Adieu, girlish dreams! adieu, bright spring-time! I must now learn to go
through the world without my guardian. I will not disgrace you," she
continued, more calmly. "I will always be steady, and a good
housekeeper. And I will be economical. I will keep the book with three
long lines down its sides once more, and put every thing down. We shall
need to be saving even in trifles, Wohlfart. Alas! poor mother!" And she
wrung her hands, and looked sad again.
"Come out into the country," suggested Anton; "if you like it, let us go
into the woods."
"Not to the woods, not to the forester's," said Lenore, solemnly, "but
to the new farm; I will go with you."
They walked across the fields. "You must lead me to-day," said Lenore.
"I will not give you up."
"Lenore, you will make our parting very painful to me."
"Will it be painful to you?" cried Lenore, much pleased. Then
immediately afterward, shaking her head, "No, Wohlfart, not so; you have
often longed in secret to be far away from me."
Anton looked at her with surprise.
"I know," cried she, confidentially pressing his arm, "I know it very
well. Even when you were with me your heart was not always with me too.
Often it was, that day in the sledge, for instance; but oftener you were
thinking of others, when you got certain letters, that you always read
in the greatest hurry. What was the gentleman's name?" asked she.
"Baumann," innocently replied Anton.
"Caught!" cried Lenore, again pressing his arm. "Do you know that that
made me very unhappy for a long time? I was a foolish child. We are
grown wise, Wohlfart; we are free people now, and therefore we can go
about arm in arm. Oh, you dear friend!"
Arrived at the farm, Lenore said to the farmer's wife, "He is leaving
us. He has told me that his first pleasure here was the nosegay that you
gathered for him. I have no flowers myself; they don't flourish with me.
The only garden on the estate is here, behind your house."
The good woman tied up a small nosegay, gave it to Anton with a
courtesy, and sadly said, "It is just the same as a year ago."
"But he is going," cried Lenore, and, turning away, her tears began to
flow.
Anton now shook hands heartily with the farmer and the shepherd: "Think
kindly of me, worthy friends."
"We have always had kindness from you," cried the farmer's wife.
"And fodder for man and beast," said the shepherd, taking off his hat;
"and, above all, consideration and order."
"Your future is secured," said Anton; "you will have a master who has
more in his power than I had." Finally, Anton kissed the farmer's
curly-headed boy, and gave him a keepsake. The boy clung to his coat,
and would not let him go.
On their return, Anton said, "What makes our parting easier to me is the
future fate of the property. And I have a prevision that all that still
seems uncertain in your life will be happily settled ere long."
Lenore walked in silence by his side; at length she asked, "May I speak
to you of the present owner of this estate? I should like to know how
you became his friend."
"By not putting up with a wrong he did me. Our intimacy has remained
unshaken, because, while I willingly gave way to him in trifles, I
always abode by my own convictions in graver matters. He has a high
respect for strength and independence, and might easily become
tyrannical if he encountered weakness of judgment and will."
"How can a woman be firm and self-reliant with such a one as he?" said
Lenore, cast down.
"No doubt," replied Anton, thoughtfully, "this must be much more
difficult for a woman who passionately loves him. Every thing that looks
like temper or self-will he will rudely break down, and will not spare
the conquered; but if opposed by a worthy and modest nature, he will
respect it. And if I were ever called upon to give his future wife a
counsel, it would be this, that she should carefully guard against
whatever might pass for bold or free in woman. The very thing that might
make a stranger agreeable, because easily establishing a familiar
footing between them, is just what he would least esteem in her."
Lenore clung closer to Anton as he spoke, and bent her head. They
returned in silence to the castle.
In the afternoon Anton went once more over the estate with Karl for
companion. Hitherto he had always felt that he was living in a strange
land; now, when about to leave it, this seemed a home. Wherever he
looked, he saw objects that had for a whole year engaged his attention.
He had bought the wheat with which this field was sown; he had ordered
the plow with which that servant was plowing; here he had roofed-in a
barn; there he had improved a ruinous bridge. Like all who enter upon a
new field of labor, he had had numberless plans, hopes, projects; and
now that he was suddenly called upon to relinquish these, he first
discovered how dear they had been. He next spent an hour in the
forester's house. As they parted, the latter said, "When you first laid
hand on this door, I little thought that the trees around us would stand
so safe, and that I should ever live again among my fellow-men. You have
made dying difficult to an old man, Mr. Wohlfart."
The parting hour came. Anton took a short and formal leave of the baron;
Lenore was quite absorbed in sorrow, and Fink affectionate as a brother.
As Anton stood by him, and looked with emotion at Lenore, he said, "Be
at ease, my friend; here, at least, I will try to be what you were." One
last hand-clasp, one last farewell, then Anton jumped into the carriage.
Karl seized the reins. They drove past the barn into the village road;
the castle disappeared. At the end of the wood Karl halted. A troop of
men were there assembled--the forester, the farmer, the shepherd, the
Kunau smith, with a few of his neighbors, and the son of the Neudorf
bailiff.
Anton joyfully sprang down and greeted them once more.
"My father sends me to bid you farewell," said the bailiff's son. "His
wounds are healing, but he can not leave his room." And the Kunau smith
shouted out as a last farewell, "Greet our countrymen at home for me,
and say that they must never forget us!"
Silently, as on the day of his arrival, Anton sat by the side of his
faithful Karl. He was free--free from the spell that had lured him
hither--free from many a prejudice; but while as free, he was as poor as
a bird of the air. He had now to begin life over again. Whether the past
year had made him stronger or weaker remained to be proved. On the
whole, however, he did not regret what he had done. He had had, gains as
well as losses; he had helped to found a new German colony; he had
opened out the path to a happy future for those he loved; he felt
himself more mature, more experienced, more settled; and so he looked
beyond the heads of the horses which were carrying him homeward, and
said to himself, "Onward! I am free, and my way is now clear."