RELATES HOW GIDEON WOLF BECAME MASTER FINK'S APPRENTICE.
Year after year passed peacefully and prosperously over my head until
eighteen years had gone by. I was fortunate in many ways--in making
friends, in earning respect, in forming a connection, and in obtaining
the services of old Anna, who served me so long and so faithfully.
Her age and her lack of beauty saved me from much anxiety. She had no
wooers, no men dancing at her heels; I doubt, if I myself had offered
to marry her, whether she would have accepted me. Not that such an idea
ever entered my head. Heaven forbid! I had too great a respect for her
years.
One morning, at the end of this time, a woman entered my shop--a pale,
thin, elderly-looking woman, with an expression of intense weariness on
her worn face. She gazed at me wistfully, and I at her in pity.
"Master Fink?" she said.
"Yes," I said, "I am he."
As I spoke I recognized her, changed as she was. My old sweetheart,
Louisa Wagner, stood before me. It saddened me to look at her. Her eyes
were dim, her hair was nearly white; and my hair was still brown, and
my eyes clear and strong, and in my heart some gladness reigned. Ah
me! Time's hand had weighed heavily upon her during the eighteen years
which had flown by since last I saw her. Had, then, all the flowers of
her life withered? No--one still bloomed, and brought joy to her; but
this I had yet to learn. No joy was now in her face, only deep anxiety
and weariness. I saw that she was ready to faint from fatigue.
"Have you come specially to see me?" I asked.
"Yes," she sighed.
"Where from?"
"From our native village."
"You have ridden here?" I said.
"No," she replied, faintly, "I walked."
"Walked!" I exclaimed. "Why, it is fifty miles!"
"Yes," she murmured, "it is fifty miles. What a long, long road! But I
am here at last, thank God!"
I divined that it was no light errand that had brought her to me, and
it was evident that her strength was spent. It was as much as she could
do to prevent herself from sinking to the ground. I hastily summoned
Anna from her kitchen, and bade her attend to my visitor. A heart of
quick sympathy beat in my old Anna's breast, and without asking who the
woman was she administered to her wants. It was not without difficulty
that this was accomplished, for Louisa was so eager to disclose her
errand that, had she been allowed to have her way, she would not have
tasted food until she had acquainted me with her mission. But Anna
insisted, and so did I, and she had not the strength to reject the
kindly offices which were forced upon her. When she had drank a basin
of nourishing soup which Anna prepared--I never really knew what soup
was till Anna made it for me; what a treasure that woman was!--I told
her I was ready to listen to her.
"I have come to you for help," she said.
"I will give it to you," I replied, "if it is in my power."
She bent her head humbly and gratefully.
"You can see," she said, "that I am very poor."
"I grieve, to see it."
And indeed my heart bled for her. Had the picture of her as she was
at that time presented itself to me eighteen years before, with the
words, "This is what the beautiful girl by your side will become in
a few years," I should have laughed at it in derision as a monstrous
impossibility. Her eyes that were bright as the stars, her cheek
that rivalled the peach in delicate bloom, her skin that was soft as
velvet, where were they now? Ah, Beauty, Beauty, be not over-vain and
confident! Old Father Time has tricks in store for you of which you do
not dream as you walk, lithe and proud and happy, through the flowery
paths of youth. Be humble, maiden, and grateful for your fair outside,
and pray to God not to weigh you down with care and trouble.
These thoughts crossed my mind as I gazed at the pale, thin woman who
had walked fifty weary miles to beg me to assist her.
Presently she disclosed what she wished me to do for her.
Her husband, Steven Wolf, had been dead six years, having done his best
during his life to imbitter her days. She did not tell me this; she
did not say that he had ill-treated her, had passed his hours in the
ale-house, had made her slave for him, had never given her a loving
word after the first few months of their marriage; but it was the
truth. He had led her a life of misery, and, when he died, left her
in the direst poverty. She took up her burden meekly, and battled on
as women do, more bravely than men, and did her duty to the uttermost
extent of her power. Her parents were dead, and she had no friends in
a position to help her. Indeed, she led me to infer, more from the
construction I placed upon her words than from the words themselves,
that the friends of her girlhood had fallen off from her--driven away,
of course, by the vagabond she had married. But she had one treasure,
one dear, priceless treasure, which compensated for all her suffering,
which kept hope alive even in her sad life. She had a child, a boy,
and his name was Gideon. Two other children had been born to her, but
she had lost them, and Gideon was the only one left. A heavenly light
came into her eyes as she spoke of him; color touched her cheeks; her
skin seemed to grow whiter and smoother. There, in the mother, I saw
once again, for a brief space, the presentment of the beautiful girl I
had loved in my youth. She told me much of her darling that interested
me--how brave he was, how truthful, bright, intelligent--how that he
was the pride of her life, and the best son a loving mother was ever
blessed with.
"He is growing fast," she said, her eyes beaming with pride, "and,
please God, in a few years will be a fine handsome man. I wish to
perform my duty by him; I wish him to learn a trade from an honest
master who will set him a good example. Your father, Gustave Fink, was
an upright, just man, and it was his example that helped you to become
one yourself. In our little village there is no opportunity for a lad
to learn a trade that will advance him in the world. He must learn it
elsewhere, and my prayer is that I may live to see my boy prosperous
and honored, with a wife and children about him who shall look up to
him with love and respect, and with his old mother sitting perhaps in a
corner of his fireside, praising the good Lord for the blessings he has
showered upon her. Ah, what happiness, what happiness!"
Her slight form shook, and her face was bedewed with tears, as she
spoke of this happy future.
"Do you propose," I asked, "to leave the village yourself, if you find
a master elsewhere for your son?"
"Oh no," she replied with eager haste; "I should be a clog upon him,
a burden; he could not support me, and it might be that I should not
be able to support myself among strangers. No, I must stop in the old
place, where I can manage to make a living, and I will wait patiently
till my son is a man, and says, 'Mother, come to me; I have a home for
you.' Oh, Gustave Fink, you took a bold step when you left our village,
a bold right step, for the world has prospered with you."
"I acknowledge it gratefully," I said.
"This shop is your own--you are the master here."
"It is my own--I am the master here."
"Be my son's master! Teach him your trade--let him profit by your
example; counsel him, guide him! You will lose nothing by it, he is
so good, so quick, so willing, so obedient! If you searched the whole
world through you would not find another lad so bright, so easy to
teach and mould. Ah, Gustave Fink, I beg of you, I implore you!"
So eager was she, so fearful lest I should refuse her, that she would
have knelt to me had I not prevented her.
My mind had been made up while she was speaking. Long before she
finished her appeal I knew what proposal she was about to make to me,
and I had resolved to do as she wished me to do. Do not misunderstand
me. I was not influenced by any stupid sentimentality in the matter.
No, no all that had passed away, and I was now a practical man who
would not permit sentiment to interfere with his business. I had a
shrewd eye for a good bargain, and here was one unexpectedly offered to
me. Besides, was it not a fine revenge?
"Louisa Wolf," I said, "I will do what you desire your weary journey
shall not be fruitless. I will take your son as my apprentice, and will
do my best by him."
She simply said, "God will reward you!" and then she turned aside, and
cried quietly to herself.
She remained with me for quite three hours, resting herself for her
return journey home, and she accepted a trifle of money to assist
her on her way. Not a word of the days that were gone was spoken by
either of us--that will show you that there was no sentiment mixed up
with this affair. I did not mention the name of Steven Wolf, nor did
she, nor did the slightest reference to the love I had borne for her
escape our lips. What we thought, we thought. It is necessary sometimes
to keep a strict watch over tongue and mind, so that our worldly
calculations may not be upset. Her lips quivered as she pressed my
hand and bade me good-bye; but it was not I who caused her emotion;
it was the thought of her son Gideon, from whom she was so soon to be
separated.