The tavern of Löbel Pinkus was thoroughly searched, the secret stores in
the next house brought to light, and several stolen goods of new and old
date being therein found, the tavern-keeper himself was sent to prison.
Among the things thus discovered was the baron's empty casket, and, in
the secret door of a locked-up press, the missing notes of hand, and
both the deeds of mortgage. In Itzig's house a document was found, by
which Pinkus declared Veitel possessor of the first mortgage of twenty
thousand. Pinkus's obdurate nature being a good deal softened by the
search, he confessed what he had no longer any interest in denying, that
he, had been commissioned by Veitel to pay the money to the baron, and
that the sum only amounted to about ten thousand dollars; so the baron
recovered his claim to the half of the first mortgage. Pinkus was
sentenced to long imprisonment. The mysterious tavern was given up; and
Tinkeles, who had, immediately upon Veitel's death, demanded his second
hundred dollars from Anton, carried his bundle and his caftan to another
retreat. His friendly feelings for the firm of T. O. Schröter had been so
quickened by the late occurrences, that they had to be on their guard,
and to decline some weighty commercial transactions on which he was most
anxious that they should enter with him. The natural consequence of
their shyness was to impress Tinkeles with their wisdom, and he
continued to frequent the counting-house, without, by any further
audacious speculations, hazarding its favor. Pinkus's house was sold to
a worthy dyer, and blue and black wool were seen hanging down from the
gallery over which Veitel's haggard form had so often leaned.
After long discussions with the attorney and the humbled Ehrenthals,
Anton received the notes of hand and the last mortgage in return for
payment of twenty thousand dollars.
Meanwhile the sale of the family property came on. A purchaser sought
out Anton even before the term, and arrangements were made which more
than insured the covering of all mortgages.
The day after the term Anton wrote to the baroness, inclosing the
baron's notes of hand. He sealed up the letter with the cheerful feeling
that out of all the wreck and ruin he had saved for Lenore a dowry of
about thirty thousand dollars.
The white snow again lay heavy on the Polish castle, and the crows left
the print of their feet on its roof. Winter's holiday robes were spread
over wood and field, the earth was hushed in deepest slumber, no
sheep-dog barked in the meadows, the farming implements were all laid
by, and yet there was life and animation on the estate, and workmen were
busy in the second story with foot-rule and saw. The ground was uneven
in the farm-yard, for the foundation of a new building had been dug; and
in the rooms around, and even out in the sunshine, workmen from the
town--- joiners, wheelwrights, and cabinet-makers--were busily employed.
They whistled cheerily at their work, and the yellow shavings flew far
and wide. New energies, in short, are visible in all directions, and
when spring comes, a colony of laborers will spread over the country,
and force the long-dormant soil to yield the fruits of industry.
Father Sturm sat in his warm room; hammering away.
Opposite him, in the only cushioned chair, reclined the blind baron,
staff in hand, listening intently.
"You must be tired, Sturm," said the baron.
"Nay," cried the giant, "my hands are as strong as ever, and this is
only a small barrel for rain-water--mere child's work."
"He once hid in a little barrel," said the baron to himself. "He was a
delicate child. His nurse had put him in to bathe him, and he had bent
his back and knees in such a way that he could not get out. I was
obliged to have the hoops knocked off to extricate my boy from his
prison."
The giant cleared his throat. "Were they iron hoops?" he asked,
sympathizingly.
"It was my son," said the baron, his features quivering.
"Yes," whispered Sturm, "he was stately; he was a handsome man; it was a
pleasure to hear his sword rattle; and to see how he twisted his little
beard." Alas! how often he had said this before to the blind father.
"It was the will of Heaven!" said the baron, folding his hands.
"It was," repeated old Sturm. "Our Lord God chose to take him when at
his best. That was an honor; and no man could leave the world more
beautifully. It was for his parents and his fatherland that he put on
his coat with epaulettes, and he was victorious, and driving those Poles
before him, when the Lord called out his name and enrolled him in his
own guard."
"But I must remain behind," said the baron.
"And I rejoice that I, too, have seen our young master," continued
Sturm, more fluently; "for you know that he was our young master then.
You trusted my Karl with the whole management of the farm, and so it was
an honor for me to be able to show that I trusted your son."
"It was wrong of him to borrow money from you," said the baron, shaking
his head. And this he said, because he had often heard old Sturm's
comforting reply, and longed to hear it again.
The giant laid his tool aside, ran his hand through his hair, and tried
to look very bold as he began, in a light-hearted tone, "Do you know,
sir, that one must make allowance for a young gentleman? Youth will be
wild. Many have to borrow money in their young days, particularly when
they wear such a beautiful coat, with silver fringe upon it. We were no
niggards either, baron," he continued, deprecatingly, gently tapping the
blind man's knee with his tool. "And the young officer was very polite,
and I believe that he was somewhat bashful. And when I gave him the
money, I could see how sorry he was to want it. I gave it him all the
more readily. Then, when I helped him into the drosky, and he leaned out
of the carriage, I can assure you he was much moved, and reached out
both of his little hands to clasp my fist, and shake it once more. And
while he was sitting there, the light fell on his face--a sweet, kind
face it was, something like yours, and still more like the baroness, as
far as I have been able to see her."
The blind man, too, stretched out his hands to grasp the porter's fist.
Sturm pushed his bench forward, took the baron's hands in his right one,
and stroked them with his left. Both sat silent, side by side.
At last the baron began with broken voice to say, "You were the last who
showed kindness to my Eugene. I thank you for it from my inmost heart.
An unfortunate, broken-down man thanks you. So long as I live I shall
implore the blessing of the Most High on your head. My son will never
support my feeble footsteps in my old age, but Heaven has preserved a
good son to you. All the blessings that I wished for my poor Eugene, I
now pray to God may be the portion of your Karl."
Sturm wiped his eyes, and then clasped the baron's hands again. The two
fathers sat together in silence, till, with a sigh, the baron rose.
Sturm carefully took his arm, and led him through yard and meadow to the
castle terrace; for there is a road now up to the tower--a road with a
stone parapet, and the door can be reached by carriages and on foot.
Sturm rings the bell, the baron's valet hurries down, and leads his
master up the steps, for Father Sturm still finds a staircase hard work.
Meanwhile a carriage stops in the farm-yard. Karl respectfully hurries
from his room, and the new proprietor jumps down.
"Good-day, sergeant," cried Fink; "how goes it in the castle and on the
farm? How are the Fräulein and the baroness?"
"All right," reported Karl, "only the baroness is very feeble. We have
been expecting you for a week past. The family have been daily asking
whether there were any tidings of you."
"I was detained," said Fink; "and perhaps I should not be back now, but
that, since this fall of snow, there is no judging of land. I have
bought Dobrowitz."
"Zounds!" cried Karl, in delight.
"Capital ground," continued Fink; "five hundred acres of wood, in which
the manure lies nearly a foot deep. In the Polish hole close by, which
they call a town, the Jews thronged like ants when they heard that
henceforth our spurs would jingle daily over their market-place. I say,
bailiff, you will be delighted when you see the new property. I have a
great mind to send you over there next spring. But what have you
there--a letter from Anton? Let's have it." He hastily tore it open. "Is
the Fräulein in the castle?"
"Yes, Herr von Fink."
"Very well. A messenger goes this evening to Neudorf;" and with rapid
step he hurried into the house.
Lenore sat in her room sewing, with a good deal of cut-out linen round
her. She diligently passed her needle through the stiff cloth, sometimes
stretching the seam on her knee, smoothing it with her thimble, and
looking doubtfully to see whether each individual stitch was small and
even. Then that rapid footstep was heard in the passage, and springing
up, she convulsively pressed her work together. But she composed herself
by a mighty effort, and sat down again to her task. He knocked at her
door. A deep blush spread slowly over her face, and her "Come in" hardly
reached her guest's ear. As Fink entered, he glanced with some curiosity
around the plainly-furnished room, which had a few chalk drawings by
Lenore on the walls, but nothing else except absolutely necessary
furniture. Even the little panther-skin sofa was gone.
When Fink bowed before her, she inquired in a tone of indifference,
"Have you been detained by any thing unpleasant? We were all uneasy
about you."
"A property that I have bought interfered with my return. I come now in
all haste to report myself to my mistress, and, at the same time, I
bring a packet which Anton has sent for the baroness. If she feels
sufficiently well to see me, will you prepare her to do so?"
Lenore took the letter. "I will go immediately to my mother; pray excuse
me;" and, slightly bending, she tried to pass him.
Fink waved her back, and said jokingly, "I find you most housewifely
busy with needle and scissors. Who is the happy one for whom you are
sewing those wedge-shaped pieces together?"
Lenore blushed again. "Gentlemen must not inquire into the mysteries of
feminine work," said she.
"I know, however, that the thimble did not usually stand high in your
favor," said Fink, good-humoredly. "Is it necessary, dear lady, that you
should ruin your eyes?"
"Yes, Herr von Fink," returned Lenore, firmly, "it is, and it will be
necessary."
"Oh ho!" cried Fink, shaking his head, and comfortably leaning against
the back of a chair. "Do you suppose, then, that I have not long ago
remarked your secret campaigns with needle and scissors, and also your
grave face, and the magnificent bearing you assume toward me, naughty
boy that I am? Where is the panther-sofa? Where is the brotherly
frankness that I have a right to expect after our understanding? You
have kept very imperfectly to our agreement. I see plainly that my good
friend is inclined to give me up, and withdraw with the best grace
possible; but permit me to remark that this will hardly avail you. You
will not get rid of me."
"Be generous, Herr von Fink," cried Lenore, in extreme excitement. "Do
not make what I have to do still harder. Yes, I am preparing to part
from this place--to part from you."
"You refuse, then, to remain with me?" said Fink, with a frowning brow.
"Very well; I shall return, and implore till I am heard. If you run
away, I shall run after you; and if you cut off your beautiful hair and
fly to a convent, I'll leap the walls and fetch you out. Have I not
wooed you as the adventurer in the fairy tales does the king's daughter?
To win you, proud Lenore, I have turned sand into grass, and transformed
myself into a respectable farmer. Therefore, beloved mistress, be
reasonable, and do not torment me by maidenly caprices."
"Oh, respect such caprices," cried Lenore, bursting into tears. "In the
solitude of these last weeks I have wrestled hourly with my sorrow. I am
a poor girl, whose duty it is to live for her afflicted parent. The
dower that I should bring you would be sickness, gloom, and poverty."
"You are mistaken," replied Fink, earnestly. "Our friend has provided
for you. He has hunted two rascals into the water, and has paid your
father's debts. The baron has a nice little fortune remaining; and I can
tell your perverse ladyship you are no bad match after all, if you lay
any stress upon that. The letter you hold upsets all your philosophy."
Lenore looked at the envelope and threw the letter away.
"No," cried she, beside herself. "When, shattered by sorrow, I lay upon
your breast, you then told me I was to get stronger; and every day I
feel that, when I come into contact with you, I have no strength, no
opinion, no will of my own. Whatever you say appears to me right, and I
forget how I thought before. What you require I must needs do,
unresisting as a slave. The woman who goes through life at your side
should be your equal in intellect and power, and should feel reliant in
her own province; but I am an uncultivated, helpless girl. In my foolish
love I let it appear that I could do for your sake what no woman should.
You find nothing in me to respect. You would kiss me and--endure me."
Lenore's hand clenched, and her eyes flashed as she spoke.
"Does it then repent you so much that for my sake you sent a bullet into
that villain's shoulder?" said Fink. "What I now see looks less like
love than hatred."
"I hate you?" cried the poor girl, hiding her face with her hands.
He took her hands, drew her to him, and pressed a kiss upon her lips.
"Trust me, Lenore."
"Leave me! leave me!" cried Lenore, struggling; but her lips were
pressed to his, and her arms twined around him; and, looking into his
face with a passionate expression of love and fear, she gradually sank
down at his feet.
Thoroughly moved, Fink stooped and raised her. "Mine you are, and I hold
you fast," cried he. "With rifle and bullet I have bought your stormy
heart. In the same breath you tell me sweet things and bitter. What,
then, am I such a despot that a noble-minded woman should fear to come
under my yoke? Just as you are, Lenore--resolute, bold, a little
passionate devil--just so will I have you remain. We have been
companions in arms, and so we shall continue to be. The day may return
when we shall both raise our guns to our cheeks, and the people about us
need natures more disposed to give than to take a blow. Were you not my
heart's desire, were you a man, I should like to have you for my life's
companion; so, Lenore, you will be to me not only a beloved wife, but a
courageous friend, the confidante of all my plans, my best and truest
comrade."
Lenore shook her head, but she clung to him firmly. "I ought to be your
housewife," sighed she.
Fink caressingly stroked back her hair and kissed her burning brow. "Be
content, sweetheart," said he, tenderly, "and make up your mind to it.
We have been together in a fire strong enough to bring love to maturity,
and we know each other thoroughly. Between ourselves, we shall have many
a storm in our house. I am no easy-going companion, at least for a
woman, and you will very soon find that will of yours again, the loss of
which you are now lamenting. Be at rest, darling, you shall be as
headstrong as of yore; you need not distress yourself on that account;
so you may prepare for a few storms, but for hearty love and a merry
life as well. I will have you laugh again, Lenore. You will have no need
to make my shirts, and, if you don't like account-keeping, why, let it
alone; and if you do sometimes give your boys a box on the ear, it will
do our brood no harm. I think you will give yourself to me."
Lenore was silent, but she clung closer to his breast. Fink drew her
away. "Come to our mother!" cried he.
Both bent over the bed of the invalid. A brightness passed over the pale
face of the baroness as she laid her hands on Fink's head and gave him
her blessing.
"She is still a child," said she. "It remains with you, my son, to make
a good woman of her."
She sent her children out of the room. "Go to your father; bring him to
me, and leave us alone together."
When the baron sat by the side of his wife, she drew his hand to her
lips and whispered, "Let me thank you, Oscar, to-day, for many years of
happiness--for all your love."
"Poor wife!" murmured the blind man.
"What you have done and suffered," continued the baroness, "you have
done and suffered for me and my son, and we both leave you behind in a
joyless world. You were not to have the happiness of transferring an
inheritance; you are the last to bear the name of Rothsattel."
The baron groaned.
"But the reputation we leave behind will be spotless as was your whole
life till two hours of despair." She placed the bundle of notes of hand
in the blind man's grasp; then, having torn each one up, she rang the
bell, and told the servant to put them piece by piece into the stove.
The flames leaped up and threw a red light over the room till the last
was consumed. The evening closed in, and the baron lay on the sick
lady's bed, and hid his face in the pillows, while she held her hands
folded over him, and her lips moved in prayer.
In the early morning light the ravens and jackdaws fluttered over the
snowy roof; their black wings hovered a while above the tower; then,
with loud cries, they broke away to the wood, to announce to their
feathered race that the castle walls contained a bride and a corpse. The
pale lady from a foreign land has died in the night, and the blind man
who is lying in his daughter's arms has but one consolation, that of
knowing that he shall soon follow her to her endless rest. And the
ill-omened birds scream out to the winds that the old Slavonic curse has
fallen on the castle, and the doom has lighted on the foreign settlers
too.
But little cares the man who now holds sway within the castle walls
whether a raven croak or a lark sing, and if a curse lie on his
property, he will laughingly blow it away. His life will be a ceaseless
and successful conflict with the dark influences around, and from the
Slavonic castle will come out a band of noble boys, and a new German
race, strong and enduring in mind and body, will overspread the land--a
race of colonists and conquerors.
* * * * *
In a few cordial lines Fink announced to his friend his own betrothal
and the death of the baroness. A sealed note to Sabine was inclosed in
the envelope.
It was evening when the postman brought the letter to Anton's room. Long
did he sit pondering its contents; at length he took up the note to
Sabine, and hurried to the front part of the house.
He found the merchant in his study, and gave him the letter.
The merchant immediately called in Sabine. "Fink is betrothed; here is
his announcement."
Sabine clasped her hands in delight, and was hurrying off to Anton, but
she stopped with a blush, took her note to the lamp, and opened it.
There could not have been much in it, for she read it in an instant,
and, though she tried hard to look grave, could not suppress a smile. At
another time Anton would have watched her mood with passionate interest;
to-day he scarcely heeded it.
"You will spend the evening with us, dear Wohlfart?" said the merchant.
Anton replied, "I was going to ask you to spare me a few moments. I have
something to say to you." He looked uneasily at Sabine.
"Let her hear it. Remain, Sabine," said the merchant to his sister, who
was just going to slip away; "you are good friends; Mr. Wohlfart will
not object to your presence. Speak, my friend; what can I do for you?"
Anton bit his lips and looked again at the beloved form that leaned with
downcast eyes against the door. "May I inquire, Mr. Schröter," he at
length began, "whether you have found the situation for which you kindly
promised to look out?"
Sabine moved uneasily, and the merchant looked up in amazement. "I
believe I shall soon have something to offer you; but is there any great
hurry about it, dear Wohlfart?"
"There is," replied Anton, gravely. "I have not a day to lose. My
relations to the Rothsattel family are now entirely closed, and the
fearful events with which I have been connected during the last weeks
have affected my health. I yearn for repose. Regular employment in some
foreign city, where nothing will remind me of the past, is, however,
positively essential to me."
Again Sabine moved, but a look from her brother kept her back.
"And could you not find that repose which I too wish for you here with
us?" inquired the merchant.
"No," replied Anton, in a faint voice; "I beg you not to be offended if
I leave you to-day."
"Leave us!" cried the merchant. "I see no reason for such haste. You can
recruit here; the ladies must take better care of you than hitherto.
Wohlfart complains of you, Sabine. He looks pale and worn. You and our
cousin must not allow that."
Sabine did not answer a word.
"I must go, Mr. Schröter," said Anton, decidedly. "To-morrow I set out."
"And will you not at least tell your friends the reason of so hasty a
departure?" said the merchant, gravely.
"You know the reason. I have done with my past. Hitherto I have ill
provided for my future; for I am about to seek and win, in some
subordinate situation, the confidence and good opinion of strangers. I
have become, too, very poor in friends. I must separate for years from
all I love. I have some cause to feel alone, and since I must needs
begin life again, it is best to do so as soon as possible, for every day
that I spend here is fruitless, and only makes my strength less, the
necessary parting harder." He spoke in deep emotion, his voice
trembling, but he did not lose his self-control. Then going up to
Sabine, he took her hand. "In this last hour I tell you, in the presence
of your brother, what it can not offend you to hear, for you have known
it long. Parting from you pains me more than I can say. Farewell!" And
now he fairly broke down, and turned to the window.
After a pause the merchant said, "Your sudden departure, dear Wohlfart,
will be inconvenient to my sister as well as to me. Sabine was anxious
to request such a service from you as a merchant's sister is likely to
require. I, too, wish very much that you should not refuse her. Sabine
begs that you will look over some papers for her. It will be no great
task."
Anton turned, and made a deprecating gesture.
"Before you decide, listen to a fact that you have probably not known
before," continued the merchant. "Ever since my father's death, Sabine
has secretly been my partner, and her advice and opinion has decided
matters in our counting-house oftener than you think. She, too, has been
your principal, dear Wohlfart." He made a sign to his sister, and left
the room.
Anton looked in amazement at the principal in white muslin, with black
braided hair. For years, then, he had served and obeyed the youthful
figure which now blushingly approached him.
"Yes, Wohlfart," said Sabine, timidly, "I, too, have had a small hold
upon your life. And how proud I was of it! Even those Christmas-boxes
you used to receive, I knew of them; and it was my sugar and coffee that
the little Anton drank. When your worthy father came to us and asked for
a situation for you, it was I who persuaded my brother to take you; for
Traugott asked me about it, he himself objecting, and thinking you were
too old. But I begged for you, and from that time my brother always
called you my apprentice. It was I who promised your father to take care
of you here. I was but an inexperienced child myself, and the confidence
of a stranger enchanted me. Your father, good old gentleman, would not
wear, while with us, the velvet cap that peeped out of his pocket, till
I drew it out and put it on his white curls; and then I wondered whether
my apprentice would have such beautiful curls too. And when you came,
and all were pleased with you, and my brother pronounced you the best of
all his clerks, I was as proud of you as your good father could have
been."
Anton leaned on the desk, and hid his face with his hands.
"And that day when Fink insulted you, and again after that boating
excursion, I was angry with him, not only for his presumption, but
because he had taken my true apprentice into danger; and because I
always felt that you belonged a little to me, I begged my brother to
take you with him on that dangerous journey. It was for me, too,
Wohlfart, that you toiled in that foreign land; and when you stood by
the loaded wagons, amid fire and clash of arms that fearful night, they
were my goods that you were saving; and so, my friend, I come to you now
in the character of a merchant, and pray you to do me a service. You
shall look over an account for me."
"I will," said Anton, turning away, "but not at this moment."
Sabine went to a book-case, and laid out two books, with gilt leaves and
green morocco binding, on the desk. Then taking Anton by the hand, she
said, in a trembling voice, "Please come and look at my Debit and
Credit." She opened the first volume. Beneath all manner of skillful
flourishes stood the words, "With God--Private Ledger of T. O. Schröter."
Anton started back. "It is the private book of the firm," cried he.
"This is a mistake."
"It is no mistake," said Sabine. "I want you to look over it."
"Impossible!" cried Anton. "Neither you nor your brother can seriously
wish this. God forbid that any one should venture to do so but the heads
of the concern. So long as a firm lasts, these pages are for no human
eyes but those of its head, and after that of the next heir. He who
reads this book knows what no stranger should--nay, as far as this book
goes, the most intimate friend is a stranger. Neither as merchant nor as
upright man can I comply with your wish."
Sabine held his hand fast. "But do look at it, Wohlfart; look at least
at its title." She pointed out its cover. "Here you have T. O. Schröter."
Then turning over the pages, "There are few empty columns here; the book
ends with the last year." Then opening the second volume, she said,
"This book is empty, but here we find another firm; look at least at its
title."
Anton read, "With God--Private Ledger of T. O. Schröter and Company."
Sabine pressed his hand, and said gently, and as with entreaty, "And you
are to be the new partner, my friend."
Anton stood motionless; but his heart beat wildly, and his face flushed
up brightly. Sabine still held his hand. He saw her face near his, and,
light as a breath, her lips touched his. He flung his arms around her,
and the two happy lovers were clasped in speechless embrace.
The door opened, and the merchant appeared. "Hold fast the runaway!"
cried he. "Yes, Anton, I have wished this for years. Since that time
when you knelt by my bed and bound up my wound in a foreign land, I have
cherished the hope of uniting you forever to our life. When you left us,
I was angry at seeing my hope baffled. Now then, enthusiast, we have you
safe--safe in our private book and in our arms." He drew the lovers to
him.
"You have chosen a poor partner," cried Anton, on his new brother's
breast.
"Not so, my brother. Sabine has shown herself a judicious merchant.
Neither wealth nor position have any value for the individual or the
community without the healthy energy which keeps the dead metal in
life-producing action. You bring into the business the courage of youth
and the wisdom of experience. Welcome to our house and to our hearts!"
Radiant with joy, Sabine held both the hands of her betrothed: "I have
been hardly able to bear seeing you so silent and so sad. Every day when
you rose from the dinner-table I used to feel that I must fly after you,
and tell you before that you belonged to us. You blind one, you never
found out what was passing within me, and Lenore's betrothed has known
it all!"
"He!" exclaimed Anton. "I never spoke of you to him."
"Look here!" cried Sabine, taking Fink's note from her pocket. There was
nothing in it but the words, "Hearty friendship, best wishes, Mrs.
Sister-in-law."
Again Anton caught his beloved in his arms.
Deck thyself out, old house! rejoice, discreet cousin! dance, ye
friendly house-sprites on the shadowy floor! The poetic dreams that the
boy Anton nursed in his early home, beneath the prayers for blessings of
his worthy parents, were honorable dreams, and here is their
fulfillment. That which allured and unsettled, and diverted him from
his life-purpose, he has with manly heart overcome.
The old diary, of his life is at an end, and henceforth, ye gracious
house-sprites, in your private book will be inscribed, "With God, his
future career of Debit and Credit."
THE END.