Summer wore away; the oats in the forest were garnered and the vintage
had begun in the vine-lands. It was a right glorious sunny day; and if
you ask me at which time of the year forest life is the sweeter, whether
in Springtide or in Autumn, I could scarce say.
Aye, it is fair indeed in the woods when Spring comes gaily in. Spring
is the very Saviour, as it were, of all the numberless folk, great and
small, which grow green and blossom there, wherefore the forest holds
festival for his birthday and cradle feast as is but fitting! The
fir-tree lights up brighter tips to its boughs, as children do with
tapers at Christmastide. Then comes the largesse. It lasts much more
than one evening, and the gifts bestowed on all are without number, and
bright and various indeed to behold. As a father’s tinkling bell brings
the children together, so the snowdrop bells call forth all the other
flowers. First and foremost comes the primrose, and cowslips--Heaven’s
keys as we call them--open the gates to all the other children of the
Spring. “Come forth, come forth!” the returning birds shout from out the
bushes, and silver-grey catkins sprout on every twig. Beech leaves burst
off their sharp, brown sheaths and open to the light, as soft as taffety
and as green as emeralds.
The other trees follow the example, and so teach their boughs to make
a leafy shade against the sun as it mounts higher. Every creature that
loves its kind finds a voice under the blossoming May, and the dumb
forest is full of the call and answer of thankful and gladsome loving
things which have met together, and of sweet tunefulness and songs of
bridal joy.
Round nests have come into being in a thousand secret places--in the
tree-tops, in the thick greenwood of the bushes, in the reeds of the
marsh; ere long young living things are twittering there, the father and
mother-birds call each other, singing to be of good cheer, and taking
joy in caring for their young. At that season of love, of growth,
of unfolding life, meseems, as I walk through the woods, that the
loving-kindness of the Most High is more than ever nigh unto me; for
the forest is as a church, a glorious cathedral at highest festival, all
filled with light and song, and decked in every nook and corner with gay
fresh flowers and leafy garlands.
Then all is suddenly hushed. It is summer.
But in Autumn the forest is a banqueting-hall where men must say
farewell, but with good cheer, in hope of a happy meeting. All that has
lived is hasting to the grave. Nevertheless on some fair days everything
wears as it were the face of a friend who holds forth a hand at parting.
The wide vaults of the woods are finely bedecked with red and yellow
splendor, and albeit the voices of birds are few, albeit the cry of the
jay, and the song of the nightingale, and the pipe of the bull-finch
must be mute, the greenwood is not more dumb than in the Spring; the
hunter’s horn rings through the trees and away far over their tops, with
the baying of the hounds, the clapping of the drivers, and the huntsmen
shouting the view halloo. Every bright, strong, healthful child of man,
then feels himself lord of all that creeps or flies, and his soul is
ready to soar from his breast. How pure is the air, how spicy is the
scent from the fallen leaves on such an autumn day! In Spring, truly,
white and rose-red, blue and yellow chequer the green turf; but now gold
and crimson are bright in the tree tops, and on the service trees. The
distance is clearer than before, and fine silver threads wave in the
air as if to catch us, and keep us in the woods whose beauty is so fast
fading.
The sunny autumn air was right full of these threads when on St.
Maurice’s day--[September 22nd]--Ann and I went forth to our duty of
fetching in the birds which had been caught in the springes set for
them.
When birds are early to flock and flee
Hard and cold will winter be,
saith the woodman’s saw; and they had gathered early this year--thrushes
and field-fares; many a time the take was so plentiful that our little
wallets could scarce hold them, and among them it was a pity to see many
a merry, tuneful red-breast.
The springes were set at short spaces apart on either side of two forest
paths. I went down one and Ann down the other. They met again nigh
to the road leading to the town. Balzer set the snares, and we prided
ourselves on which should carry home the greater booty; and when we had
done our task as we sat on a grassy seat which the Junker had made for
me, we told the tale of birds and thought it right good sport. Nor did
we need a squire, inasmuch as Spond, the great hound, would ever follow
us.
This day I was certain I had the greater number of birds in my wallet,
and I walked in good heart toward the end of the path.
Methought already I had heard the noise of hoofs on the highway, and
now the hound sniffed the air, so, being inquisitive, I moved my feet
somewhat faster till I caught sight of a horseman, who sprang from his
saddle, and leaving his steed, hurried toward the clearing whither Ann
must presently come from her side. Thereupon I forced my way through the
underwood which hindered me from seeing, and when I presently saw Ann
coming and had opened my lips to call, something, meseemed, took me by
the throat, and I was fain to stand still as though I had taken root
there, and could only lend eye and ear, gasping for breath, to what was
doing yonder by the highroad. And verily I knew not whether to rejoice
from the bottom of my heart, or to lament and be wroth, and fly forth to
put an end to it all.
Nevertheless I stirred not a limb, and my tongue was spell-bound. The
heart in my bosom and the veins in my head beat as though hammers were
smiting within; mine eyes were dazed, albeit they could see as well
as ever they did, and I espied first, on one side of the clearing,
the horseman, who was none other than Herdegen, my well-beloved elder
brother, and on the other side thereof Ann carrying her wallet in her
hand, and numbering the birds she had taken from the snares, with a
contented smile.
But ere I had time to hail the returned traveller a voice rang through
the wood--it was my brother’s voice, and yet, meseemed it was not; it
spoke but one word “Ann!” And in the long drawn cry there was a ring of
heart’s delight and lovesick longing such as I had never heard save
from the nightingale lover when in the still May nights he courts his
beloved. This cry pierced to my heart, even mine; and it brought the
color to Ann’s face, which had long ceased to be pale. Like a doe which
comes forth from a thicket and finds her young grazing in the glade,
she lifted her head and looked with brightest eyes away to the high road
whence the call had come. Then, though they were yet far asunder, his
eyes met hers, and hers met his, and they uplifted their arms, as though
some invisible power had moved them both, and flew to meet each other.
There was no doubt nor pause; and I plainly perceived that they were
borne along as flowers are in a raging torrent; albeit she, or ever she
reached him; was overcome by maiden shamefacedness, and her arms fell
and her head was bent. But the little bird had ventured too far into
the springe, and the fowler was not the man to let it escape; before Ann
could foresee such a deed he had both his arms round her, and she did
not hinder him, nay, for she could not. So she clung to him and let
him lift up her head and kiss her eyes and then her mouth, and that
not once, no, but many a time and again, and so long that I, a
sixteen-year-old maid, was in truth affrighted.
There stood I; my knees quaked, and I weened that this which was doing
was a thing that beseemed not a pious maid, and that must ill-please the
heart of a virtuous daughter’s mother; yea, it was a grief to me that
it should have been done, and that I knew that of my Ann which she would
fain hide from the light. Nevertheless I could not but find a joy in
it, and meseemed it was a cruel act to fetch her away so soon from such
sweet bliss.
When presently their lips were free, and at last he spoke a few words to
her, methought it was now time for me to greet my brother. I called up
all my strength and while I walked toward them my spirit’s sense came
back to me, for indeed it had altogether left me, and a voice within
asked: “What shall come of this?”
He put forth his arm to hold her to him again, and forasmuch as I was
abashed to think of coming in to their secret, before I stepped forth,
from the thicket, I hailed Herdegen by name. And soon I was in his arms;
but although that he kissed me lovingly, meseemed that something strange
was on his lips which pleased me not, and I yet remember that I put my
kerchief to my mouth to wipe that from it.
And then we walked homeward. Herdegen led his horse by the bridle, and
Ann went between him and me and gazed up into his face with shining
eyes, for in these two years he had grown in stature and in manhood. She
listened wide-eared to all his tidings, but once, when his horse grew
restive, so that he turned away from us women-kind she kissed my cheek,
but in great haste, as though she would not have him see it. We were
gladly welcomed at the forest lodge. How truly my uncle and aunt
rejoiced at my brother’s home-coming could be seen in their eyes, though
the mother, who had banished her own son, was cut to the heart by the
sight of such another well-grown youth.
The evening before guests had come to the lodge his excellency the Lord
Justice Wigelois von Wolfstein, and Master Besserer of Ulm. Now we
had to make ready in all haste for dinner, and never had Ann made such
careful and diligent use of our little mirror. As it fell, we could be
alone together for a few minutes only, and had no chance of speaking to
each other privily. This was likewise the case at table, and then, as my
uncle had prepared for a hunt in the afternoon, in honor of his guests,
and as the supper afterwards lasted until midnight, the not over-strong
thread of my good patience was not seldom in danger of giving way. But
many things were going forward which gave me matter for thought, and
increased the distress I already felt. Ann threw herself into the sport
with all her heart, and on the way back fell behind with Herdegen in
such wise that they did not reach home till long after the door closed
on the last of us.
At supper she nodded to me many times with much contentment; except for
that I might have been buried for aught she noted, for she hearkened
only to Herdegen’s tales as though they were a revelation from above.
For his part, he now and again stole a hasty, fiery glance at her;
otherwise he of set purpose made a show of having little to do with
her. He often lay back as though he were weary; and yet, when their
Excellencies questioned him of any matter, he was ever ready with a
swift and discreet answer. He had lost nothing of his wonderfully clear
and shrewd wit; nevertheless, I was not so much at my ease with him as
of old time. When my uncle said in jest that the wise owl from Padua
seemed to wear a motley of gay feathers, his intent was plain as soon as
one looked at my brother; and in the fine clothes he had chosen to wear
at supper the noble lad was less to my mind than in the hunting weed
which he had journeyed in, inasmuch as the too great length of the
sleeves of his mantle was in his way when eating, and the over-long
points to his shoes hindered him in walking.
When, presently, my Aunt Jacoba left the hall that the men might the
better enjoy the heady wine and freer speech, we maidens were bound to
follow her duteously; but Herdegen signed to me to come apart with him,
and now I hoped he would open his heart to me and treat me as he had
been wont, as my true and dear brother, whose heart had ever been on the
tip of his tongue. Far from it; he spoke nought but flattery, as “how
fair I had grown,” and then desired news of Cousin Maud, and Kunz, and
our grand-uncle, and at last of Ursula Tetzel, which made me wroth.
I answered him shortly, and asked him whether he had no more than that
to say to me. He gazed down at the ground and said to himself: “To be
sure, to be sure.” But in a minute he went back to his first manner, and
when I bid him good-night in anger he put his arm round me and turned me
about as if to dance.
I got myself free and went away, up to our chamber, hanging my head.
There I found my old Sue, taking off Ann’s fine gown; and whereas Ann
nodded to me right sweetly and, as I thought, with a secret air, I
guessed that it was the waiting-woman who stayed her speech and I sent
my nurse away.
Now I should sooner have looked for the skies to fall than for Ann, my
heart’s closest friend, to keep the secret of what had befallen that
very morning; and yet she kept silence.
We were commonly wont to chirp like a pair of crickets while we braided
our hair and got into our beds; but this night there was not a sound
in the chamber. Commonly we laid us down with a simple “Good night,
Margery,” “Sleep well, Ann,” after we had said our prayers before the
image of the Blessed Virgin; but this night my friend held me close in
her arms, and as I was about to get into bed she ran to me again and
kissed me with much warmth. Whether I was so loving to her I cannot, at
this day, tell; but I remember well that I remained dumb, and my heart
seemed to ache with sorrow and pain. I thought myself defrauded, and my
true love scorned. Was it possible? Did my Ann trust me no longer, or
had she never trusted me?
Nay more. Was she at all such as I had believed, if she could carry on
an underhand and forbidden love-making with Herdegen behind my back; and
this, Merciful Virgin, peradventure, for years past!
The taper had burnt out. We lay side by side striving to sleep, while
distress of mind and a wounded heart brought the tears into my eyes.
Then I heard a strange noise from her bed, and was aware that Ann
likewise was weeping, more bitterly and deeply every minute. This
pierced the very depths of my soul. Yet I tried to harden my heart till
I heard her voice saying: “Margery!”
That was an end of our silence, and I answered: “Ann.”
Then she sobbed out: “As we came home from the hunt he made me promise
never to reveal it, but it is bursting my heart. Oh! Margery, Margery,
I ought to hide and bury it in my soul; so he bid me, and
nevertheless....”
I sat up on the pillow as if new life had come to me, and cried: “Oh
Ann, you can tell me nothing that I know not already, for I saw him
dismount and how he embraced you.”
And then, before I was aware of her, she leaped up and was kneeling on
her knees by the head of my bed, and her lips were kissing mine, and
her cheeks were against my face and her tears running down my cheeks and
neck and bosom while she confessed all. In our peaceful little chamber
there was a wild outpouring of vows of love and words of fear, of plans
for the future, and long tales of how it all had come to pass.
I had with mine own eyes seen it in the bud and, unwittingly indeed, had
fostered its growth. How then could I be dismayed when now I beheld the
flower?
Their meeting this morning had been as the striking of flint and steel,
and if sparks had come of it how could they help it? And I took Ann’s
word when she said that she would have flown into the arms of her
beloved, if father and mother and a hundred more had been standing round
to warn her.
All she said that night was full of perfect and joyful assurance, and it
took hold of my young soul; and albeit I could not blind myself, but saw
that great and sore hindrances stood in the way of my brother’s choice,
I vowed to myself that I would smooth their path so far as in me lay.
All was now forgotten that I had taken amiss that evening in the
returned wanderer; and when I gave Ann a last kiss that night how well I
loved her again!