When at noon to-day Lambert tore himself away from Catherine, she stood
still as though stunned. The conviction that she ought to remain behind
had come to her on the instant; the determination to do so had been
uttered so soon; the carrying out of the resolution too had followed so
closely at its heels, that now, as the forms of the riders disappeared
behind a turn of the road and she found herself really alone, it
appeared to her as though she were having a disagreeable, fearful dream
out of which she must momentarily awake. She struck herself over her
forehead and eyes, but all was real. There stood the empty crib. There
lay the pail which the mare had pushed over. There was the pillion
which at the last moment Lambert had unbuckled from the saddle. There
were the short, trampled grass and the tracks of the hoofs of the
horses. There was the open door in which she had just now seen Lambert.
Catherine took a few steps, as though she would follow the beloved one,
and then stood still, pressing her hand on her loud-beating heart. Deep
sadness overwhelmed her, but she vigorously fought down the feeling.
"He has so often called you a brave girl," said she to herself, "and
will you weep and complain like a child which the mother has left alone
for a few moments? He will soon come back; surely he will soon come
back."
She entered the house to see what time it was. The hand of the
Swartzwald clock pointed to twelve. The distance to Nicolas Herkimer's
house was six miles. If she counted going and returning it was twelve,
and on the calculation of the men themselves would take them two hours,
so that Lambert could be back by six o'clock, or by seven at the
latest. That was indeed a long time, but there was yet much to do, and
perhaps also to-day Conrad would return earlier from hunting.
"On Conrad's account I should remain here," said Catherine to herself
as she cleared away the dinner-dishes. "He must learn to see in me his
sister, and he will, when we show our confidence in him and have no
secrets before him. Ah, could I only yesterday have greeted him as a
brother! However, that will follow. It must follow yet to-day, when he
returns. Then we will live together in peace, and the wild man will
find that it is not a bad thing to have a female friend who takes care
of him until he himself loves a girl, and establishes a home and builds
a house for himself here near us, or at the edge of the woods he so
much loves. That will be a joyful, happy life. We will be good
neighbors. I shall love his wife and she me."
Catherine had sat down on the hearth and, with her head supported by
her hand, looked before her with half-closed eyes, thinking. The fire
on the hearth gently crackled; the wall-clock said "tick-tack." In the
meadow outside the birds sang. Through the open door the sun shone
clear into the cool, shaded room; and in the bright sunbeams, which
reached as far as her knees, dust atoms danced, lighted up, and
twinkling like golden stars seemed to be waving and playing and
catching one another. Then they were no longer golden stars, but
children's laughing faces, which emerged out of the partial darkness of
the background, came up to her knees, and again disappeared in the dark
corners, and from them looked out with bright, blue, happy eyes. Then
the vision vanished. The sun still shone into the silent room. The fire
crackled. The wall-clock said "tick-tack," and out in the meadows sang
the birds.
The young maiden arose and commenced her labor anew, but there was a
different expression in her mild, innocent countenance; and other
thoughts, which came to her like a revelation, filled her soul. The
bridal feeling which now happified her, had acquired another phase, for
which she knew not how to account. It was a deeper, more earnest
feeling--distinguished from the former like the light of noon now lying
on field and forest, from that of the morning. Those were the same
bending grass-stems and the same swaying tree-tops. It was the same
clear creek and they were the same waving rushes, and yet all was
changed as by a gentle, mighty, magic hand, and spoke another
speech--moving and dissolving in mystery. Now she understood why the
beloved man, who was truth and openness itself, so anxiously concealed
from her for weeks that she must live alone with him in his house.
"Alone! Would it not have been the same had he told the truth? told me
that he loved me? that he did not want me as a maid-servant? Would it
not have come out just the same? Did I not also love him from the first
moment on? and have I not followed him through peopled cities, through
the pathless wilderness, on a journey of weeks, through rain and
sunshine, day and night, in unknown regions? What is so different now?
Did I not devote myself to him as we left the ship hand in hand? 'You
shall be my lord!' And is it not said in the church when the minister
lays the hands of lovers together: 'He shall be thy lord.' Yes, he
shall be my lord, now and always. He shall be my lord."
So spoke Catherine to herself to banish the occasional shudders that
passed through her heart and often took away her breath, while she
completed the arrangements in her room which had been temporarily made
last evening, and put away her few belongings in a closet that had been
contrived in the thick wall. Then, as there was nothing more to do
here, she for the first time ascended the stairs to the upper story,
and walked around the gallery which encircled the house and projected
beyond the lower story, and was surrounded by well-joined planks and
provided with port-holes. With the exception of a place poorly enough
partitioned off in which the brothers had slept the previous night, the
room, used in winter as a store-room, was empty, or served for the
storage of that for which there was no room below. Catherine acquired a
clearer notion of the plan, which she and Lambert had formed in the
morning, to prepare a small, pleasant room for them both here where
everything was more airy and free. However, without Lambert she did not
succeed very well in planning.
So she again went downstairs, and to her surprise saw by the clock that
since Lambert had left but one hour had elapsed. She took some work and
seated herself with it on a bench before the door in the shade of the
gallery.
It was in the stillness of the day. There was so little wind that the
grass-stems in the meadow, and the rushes at the edge of the creek,
scarcely bent. The butterflies passed from flower to flower on languid
wing. The hum of the bees and the chirping of the crickets had a sleepy
sound. All around, everything was still. However, out of the forest
there frequently came the hoarse cry of the tree-falcon, or the call of
a bird which Catherine did not recognize. In the blue sky there hung
single white clouds whose shadows moved, slowly--very slowly--over the
sunny prairie.
At first Catherine was pleased with this quietude, which seemed an
image of sabbath stillness, filling her soul. But she had scarcely thus
sat an hour before the monotony of the scene about her filled her heart
with a strange fear. How entirely different it was this morning. Then
heaven and earth and tree and bush and every flower and every
grass-stem smiled and bowed their welcome to her. Everything had spoken
to her in persuasive language. Now that the beloved one was at a
distance everything was dumb, except that heaven and earth and tree and
bush and every flower and every grass-stem breathed out one word with
ever-increasing sadness: Alone! alone!
Catherine let her work sink into her lap. An image, that had been for
many years as if blotted from her memory, suddenly came before her in
pale colors, but very distinct--the image of her dead mother, who,
adorned with flowers, lay in her coffin--and she a little girl, ten
years old, stood beside it; and her father had come up and taken her
hand and said: "We two are now alone."
"Alone!"
Her heart was filled with increasing fear. Again taking up her work she
tried to sing a song that always occurred to her when everything was so
quiet: "Were I a wild Falcon I would soar aloft." But she commenced so
gently that she did not complete the first measure. Her voice sounded
strange. She was frightened at her own voice.
Perhaps, she thought, it would be better if she went to the barn-yard
where in the morning she had passed such happy moments with Lambert.
She arose and hastily walked down the path, at last running, and now
with beating heart leaned against the bars of the inclosure. The sheep
which stood near ran away frightened, and looked at her from a distance
with dull eyes. In the yard all was still. The hens and turkeys had
gone out into the fields. As she again turned, from among the fruit
trees, in whose blossom-covered branches this morning a robin sang so
sweetly, there broke out a brown bird of prey and with broad, flapping
wings hastened toward the forest. On the ground among the grass there
lay several colored feathers.
More sad than when she went Catherine returned to the house, and again
sat down before the door, with the full purpose now to wait quietly,
and to fight down her depression of spirits.
So she sat patiently long, endless hours. The light in the green tops
of the trees in yonder woods became more golden. The shadows that lay
along the edge became deeper and broader--one after another came out of
the wilderness until at last they branched out in troops. From time to
time flocks of pigeons flew like lightning over the prairie from one
side of the forest to the other. High above them, in the bright sky,
sailed more slowly chains of wild geese, filling the air with their
monotone cry. Then again everything was still, and Catherine could hear
the rushing of the blood in her temples.
She could endure it no longer. It occurred to her that she had seen a
couple of books in the house on a shelf too high for her to reach. She
went in, pushed up the table, set a stool on it and got the books.
There were two of them, bound in hog's leather, very dusty and
worm-eaten--a Bible and a history, as it appeared. The writing on the
fly-leaf was at first in Latin, which the minister's daughter
understood well enough to decipher with a little pains. It stated
that this book belonged to Conrad Emanuel Sternberg, formerly a
student of theology at Heidelberg, who, in the year 1709, after his
parents--well-to-do vintners in the Palatinate--had lost everything in
the dreadful winter, when the wine in the casks and the birds in the
air froze, in company with the young cooper, Christian Ditmar, from
Heidelberg, had determined upon the great undertaking of emigrating to
America, which he reached June 13th, 1710, more dead than alive,
after a long and tedious voyage from the Rhine through Holland and
by way of England. He settled on the Hudson with his friends and
fellow-sufferers, where he hoped to end his life in quietness and
peace.
This pious wish was not fulfilled. Further notices followed this
connected narrative, but written in the German language, as though the
writer had meanwhile forgotten his Latin, saying that he had moved with
his faithful companion, Christian Ditmar, from the Hudson to the
Mohawk, thence to Schoharie and finally to Canada Creek. Then there was
the date of his marriage with Elisabeth Christiane Frank, of Schoharie,
the younger sister of Ursula, his old friend's and now brother-in-law's
wife, the birthdays of his sons, Lambert and Conrad, and the death of
Christiane. With this sad event the record of the life of the old
Heidelberg student was closed. He had not written a line more.
Catherine looked thoughtfully at the faded writing, gently closed the
lid and opened the second, smaller book. It was entitled: "Description
of the destruction of the city of Heidelberg on the 22nd and 23rd of
May, 1689."
She began to read mechanically until by degrees she became conscious of
what she was reading and sprang up with a dull outcry: "Great God! what
have I read? Is it possible that human beings can so rage against one
another--that there are tyrants to whom neither the silvered hair of
the aged, nor the modesty of the maiden, nor the innocent laughter of
children--to whom nothing is sacred?
"Why not? Did not the bands under Soubise ravage through the cities and
towns of Hanover? And did not their ruthless cruelty and base
shamelessness drive her old father and all her neighbors and friends
from their beloved homes across the sea? Were they not the sons and
grandsons of those robbers who, under Melac and Borges, burnt the
Palatinate and reduced Heidelberg to a dust heap?
"And again, did they not, the year before, ravage here just so, in
connection with the Indians, their like-minded confederates? Here,
among these hills and in these valleys and woods, the same French were
threatening again and their approach was already proclaimed. Dreadful!
dreadful!"
The poor girl, though so sore and sad at heart, had up to this moment
found no definite cause of fear. Now fear overwhelmed her with sudden
power. She looked with fixed eyes toward the edge of the forest as
though at every moment the French and Indians were about to break forth
from its silent recesses. She listened intently, until the blood seemed
to boil in her temples, and as though it would burst the veins.
Merciful God! What would become of her? How could Lambert leave her in
such a howling wilderness?--he who had so long been her guardian and
defense--he who had cherished her as the apple of his eye. If only
Conrad would come. It was about the same time yesterday when he
came--no, it was later; the sun had already set, and now it was still
over the woods. But why should he to-day stay out so long? And who,
besides Lambert, could better protect her than Lambert's brother, the
strong, alert man who only needed to set his foot across the door-step
to make those dwelling in the house feel secure? So Lambert said only
this morning. Why did he now stay away when his presence was so much
desired?
Catherine pressed her hands against her beating temples. What should
she do? What could she do but wait and try to hush a fear that surely
was childish. There near her lay the Bible. She had so often, in sad
hours, drawn from it rest and comfort. She took it up and read where
her eyes happened to fall:
"And the Lord had respect unto Abel and to his offering. But unto Cain
and his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth and his
countenance fell. And the Lord said unto Cain: Why art thou wroth? and
why is thy countenance fallen? * * * And Cain talked with his brother
Abel, and it came to pass when they were in the field, Cain rose up
against Abel his brother and slew him."
The printed page glimmered before her eyes. With a dull cry the
affrighted girl sprang up. "Cain killed Abel! Cain killed Abel!" And
she had wished that he--the terrible one--were here--he who this
morning had uttered such dreadful threatenings. No, no! he must not
come back; he must not find her alone. He must not see her again. She
must away to meet Lambert. She must warn him--must tell him that his
brother would kill him on her account; that he must give her up, or
with her go out into the wide world. They must flee from the brother.
He must save her and himself from that dreaded brother.
As though the block-house was on fire Catherine hastened from the door,
down the hill, to the creek, along the creek, without looking around,
without observing that she had started in the opposite direction so
that at every step she was farther away from Lambert. When she reached
the bridge where Lambert had yesterday overtaken her she became aware
of her mistake. But she was like a wrecked vessel driven shoreward by
the waves and then again carried out to sea. Destruction by him from
whom she would escape seemed unavoidable. No more capable of forming a
further purpose, deprived of all strength, she sunk together; and as
though she must here await the expected death-blow, she bowed her head
and covered her face with her hands.
"Catherine!"
Slowly she withdrew her hands from her deadly pale face, and saw Conrad
standing before her with his rifle on his shoulder and his dog at his
heels, looking at her with vacant eyes, and appearing to have just come
out of the sedge along the shore. She had anticipated his coming--knew
that he would come. She no longer felt that nameless dread. On the
other hand there instantly came over her a peculiar restfulness, and in
a quiet tone she said: "You come late. I have been waiting for you."
"Indeed?" said Conrad.
He was also very pale, and the expression of his face was strangely
changed.
Catherine observed it, but it could not change her purpose to proceed,
even should it cost her life. She arose from her reclining position,
though not without an effort--her limbs seemed as if dead--and, as she
began mechanically to return to the house, she said:
"I have been waiting for you, since I wish to say something to you
before I leave your house."
Conrad started. Catherine felt it, though she kept her eyes directed to
the ground. However, involuntarily walking faster, she proceeded:
"What I could not tell you this morning, for it has taken place since,
I will say now. I have become engaged to your brother."
She expected that now an outbreak would follow, but Conrad walked on
silently at her side.
"I engaged myself to him," said Catherine--and her voice became firmer
while she spoke--"this morning after you were gone, and I hardly know
how it came about. I only know that Lambert has done for me more than
any other man, excepting my good old father who is dead; that to him I
owe my life, which therefore belongs to him; that at any time he might
ask for it he might have it of me. He did not ask it of me this
morning, but I gave it to him freely--my life and my love--for that is
the same. And now--"
"And now?" asked Conrad.
"Now I must away, if you are not the kind brother whom Lambert loves so
much--if you are resolved to turn the angry words you spoke this
morning into fierce deeds. How could I remain here and see how I have
sown strife between brother and brother, especially at this time, when
you should stand shoulder to shoulder against the treacherous enemy?
Where I shall go I do not know, I only know that I cannot stay, so long
as you are angry at your brother on my account. But, Conrad, while I
thus speak, it seems to me entirely impossible that you can place
yourself between me and your brother."
"Why impossible?" asked Conrad.
"Because you love your brother," replied Catherine, gathering courage
as she spoke. "You have every reason to love him, though you do not
love me as Lambert loves me. Why should you? You do not know me. You
saw me yesterday for the first time, and a few minutes this morning.
Though I may indeed have pleased you, yet, as you now hear that my
heart is already given to your brother, what else, as an honorable man,
can you do than to rejoice at our happiness as we would rejoice in
yours should heaven provide you a similar happiness, which I hope may
soon happen?"
They had reached the house. The dog, which with long leaps had gone
ahead, met them wagging her tail and springing against her master
Conrad pushed the animal away, but not with his usual rough force. His
manner was more sad than angry and his motions were like those of one
who is very tired. He sank down on the bench on which Catherine's work
and the books still lay, supported his elbow on his knee and rested his
head on his hand.
"You are hungry and thirsty from your long hunt," said Catherine;
"shall I prepare your evening meal?"
Conrad shook his head. All fear had vanished from Catherine's soul. As
she saw the wild, intractable man sitting there so still--so sunk
within himself--there stirred in her heart stronger and stronger
another feeling.
"Conrad," said she softly. "Conrad," she repeated, laying her hand on
his shoulder, "I will indeed also hold you very dear."
A dull cry, like that of an animal that has been mortally wounded,
broke from Conrad's broad chest. He put both hands to his face and wept
aloud like a child, and the body of the giant-like man shook from the
pain stirring within him as might the small frame of a child.
Catherine for a moment stood helpless and speechless. Then there
also came from her eyes warm tears, and with the tears she found
words--mild, kind words--of sympathy and comfort. She told him again
and again that she would love him as a sister should love a brother;
that his young, sorrowful heart would find peace; that he should see in
her his sister; and that he would find pure happiness in this feeling
until there blossomed out another happiness in the love of a virtuous
girl, in which no one would more deeply share than she and Lambert.
"Do not speak his name," said Conrad.
He had jumped up, all his limbs shaking with anger and his eyes
flashing. He convulsively grasped his gun, which stood near, by the
barrel.
"You think you are going to play me off with words. For me smooth
words; for him kisses! I saw to-day in the woods how handsomely you can
kiss."
He broke out in loud laughter. Catherine, frightened, drew back.
"So!" said Conrad, "that is your true face. Do you still love me as a
sister her brother?"
"If you are so unbrotherly, no!" said Catherine. "But you do not know
what you are saying."
"Truly not," growled Conrad.
"And not what you are doing," said Catherine. "You would otherwise be
ashamed to torment a poor, helpless girl."
She leaned against the door-post, pale and trembling, her hands folded
over her breast, her large eyes fixed on the angry man, who tried in
vain to meet her gaze, and raved before her like a wild animal.
Then the dog dashed forward, and at the same moment the dull hoof-beats
of a horse in full run became perceptible. Fear seized Catherine as to
what the issue would be should Lambert now return--and it could be no
other.
"Conrad!" she called; "Conrad, it is your brother."
Impelled by an overwhelming feeling she threw herself before him and
wound her arms about his knees.
"Let me be!" cried Conrad.
"Not till you have sworn that you will not injure him."
"Let me be!" cried Conrad again, and he violently tore her loose.
Catherine tottered forward, stumbled and fell. Her head struck hard
against the door-sill.
She came near fainting, but with a great effort picked herself up
again, as angry voices struck her ear, and threw herself between the
brothers.
"Lambert! Conrad! For God's sake, rather kill me! Conrad, it is your
brother. Lambert, he does not know what he is doing!"
The brothers released each other, and panting, looked at one another
with flashing eyes. By the sound Lambert's rifle had fallen to the
ground. Conrad held his half-raised in his strong hands.
"Now," said Lambert; "why do you not shoot?"
"I do not want to kill you," said Conrad. "If I wanted your life I
could have taken it this morning."
"What then do you want?"
"Nothing from you. Why did you come just now? You shall not see me
again. Since we have happened again to meet, let me tell you that it
must be the last time. Go your own way and let me go mine."
With a powerful swing he threw his rifle on his shoulder and turned
away.
Lambert intercepted him. "You must not go. I will forget that you
raised your hand against me. Do you also forget that I raised mine
against you. By the memory of our father; by the memory of our mother,
I conjure you, do not leave your parents' house."
"It is too small for us all," said Conrad, with bitter scorn.
"Then _we_ will leave it. I will gladly do it if you will but stay."
"I need no house," said Conrad.
"The house, however, needs you, as you can help defend it against our
bitter enemies. Do you wish to see it go up in flames? You know that
the French are coming--perhaps you know more about it than I--than all
of us; and we to-day greatly missed you. Will you become a traitor to
our common interests--to your brother, your friends, to wives and
children? Conrad, you must not go away!"
"If the enemy comes you will again creep away as you did before," said
Conrad. "I will not hide in forts. I will fight openly. I will take the
matter in hand entirely alone, and you may here, in your holes, go to
destruction or not; it will not trouble me. My blood be upon me if I
again set either foot across this door-sill!"
He pushed his fur cap down over his eyes, whistled to his dog, and as
he, making his rounds about the house, did not come, he called out:
"So you, too, stay here. Curse on you all!"
That was the last word that Catherine heard. The dreadful,
soul-stirring excitement of these hours had exhausted her strength, and
her fall had broken her down entirely. She felt a stinging pain in her
temples. There was a ringing in her ears. She saw Lambert's form, as
through a veil, bending over her; and then it was not Lambert, but Aunt
Ursul, and then everything sunk away about her in deep night.